Uncle William studied his program. "Sounds more sensible'n some of it."
He had laid a big finger on a section near the end. "I can understand
that, now, 'To an Old White Pine.' That's interestin'. Now that one
there." He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, "'Opus 6, No. 2, A
minor, All-e-gro.' Now mebbe _you_ know what that means--_I_ don't. But
an ol' white-pine tree--anybody can see that. We don't hev 'em up my
way--pine-trees. But I like 'em--al'ays did--al'ays set under 'em when
they're handy. You don't hev many round here?"

The old gentleman smiled. "No; there are not many old white pines in New
York. I can remember a few, as a boy."

"Can ye?--Right in the center here?" Uncle William was interested.

"Well, not just here--a little out. But they're gone." The old gentleman
sighed. "MacDowell has caught the spirit. You can hear the wind soughing
through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still
kind of light all around. It's very nice."

"Good poetry, I s'pose," assented Uncle William. "I don't care so much
for poetry myself. Some on it's good," he added thoughtfully. "'The Boy
Stood on the Burning Deck,' that swings off kind o' nice, and 'Horatius
at the Bridge.' But most on it has a kind o' travelin' round way with
it--has to go round by Robin Hood's barn to get anywheres. I'm gen'ally
sort o' drowsy whilst it's bein' read."

The old gentleman had laughed out genially. "MacDowell doesn't write
poetry, except short things--lines for headings. He makes it on the
piano."