TH

HE success two seasons ago of the revival of "La Vestale" made it almost inevitable that sooner or later that other operatic priestess, "Norma," would reappear on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House, whence she has been banished ever since the great Lilli Lehmann presented her there some thirty years ago. Reappear she did about six weeks since, this time in the person of Rosa Ponselle.

That the revival was justified is evident, as in the first place, an opera that has held its own for nearly a century shows a vitality that in itself constitutes no inconsiderable element of greatness and should be heard by the present generation of opera-goers once at least, even though it be listened to much in the same spirit that gets one through the reading of a masterpiece by one of the great eighteenth-century novelists. Besides, it gives us an opportunity to hear and enjoy a type of singing all too seldom vouchsafed to us in these days of squawks and grunts heroically endeavoring to break through the barrage of a gigantic orchestra going full blast, which, though it often makes a grand and glorious effect taken as a whole, can scarcely be calculated to further diligent pursuit of the art of bel canto.

After the first feelings of exasperation over the inadequacy of the instrumentation and accompaniments have somewhat subsided, one comes to accept the old opera as it is for what it is, hoppytoad tunes and all. Even in the heyday of its career it evidently was not considered altogether sacred, for did not Richard Wagner himself when he was in Paris in 1840, long before the days of the Tannhäuser-Jockey Club war, endeavor on one occasion to monkey-up this very score? He says in his autobiography: "The various ways by which I might obtain recognition in Paris formed the chief topic of our discussions at that time. . . . I next stumbled on the idea of writing a grand bass aria with a chorus, for Lablache to introduce into his part of Orivist in Bellini's Norma. Lehrs had to hunt up an Italian political refugee to get the text out of him. This was done, and I produced an effective

composition à la Bellini (which still exists among my manuscripts), and went off at once to offer it to Lablache. . . . Lablache received me most kindly, and assured me that my aria was most excellent, though it was impossible to introduce it into Bellini's opera after the latter had already been performed so very often. My relapse into the domain of Bellini's style, of which I had been guilty through the writing of this aria, was therefore useless to me, and I soon became convinced of the fruitlessness of my efforts in that direction." It would be amusing to get hold of that "grand bass aria"!

Nevertheless good old "Norma" has weathered many storms, and if she continues to be presented to future generations as she is now brought forward at the Metropolitan she's likely to weather many more. Much bilge has been written and spoken as to the excruciating difficulty of singing this very exacting rôle. Rosa Ponselle settles all that by starting in full voice in the "Casta Diva" and ending up in that last great aria with no diminution of tone whatever, no signs of fatigue, and the whole done with no apparent effort, a shining example of singing and acting in what for lack of a better term is generally known as the Grand Style. Can it be that the powers at the Opera House are getting ready to present her in some of the great Wagnerian rôles-Isolde, for instance?

Serafin did wonders with the archaic instrumentation, Lauri-Volpi acquitted himself nobly as Pollione, while Marion Telva gave us the best work we have had from her thus far, singing with a

Deauty of tone that managed to hold its own against the glorious singing of this particular Norma. The scenic investiture was all that could be desired and the chorus was quite equal to the demands made upon it; but, after all is said and done, "Norma" as now given at the Metropolitan is Rosa Ponselle's own particular affair.

Louise Homer returned to us after an absence of eight years or thereabouts, and gave a stirring performance as Amneris in a special matinée offering of "Aïda." She had a great welcome, as was to have been expected, and vocally as well as histrionically justified the expectations of many who had never heard her in opera as well as those who have long known and admired this fine artist's work. The eight years have brought a little added weight, but otherwise the passing of time has left little or no mark on the singer, who on this particular occasion was at the top of her form. Grete Stueckgold revealed a most interesting Aïda, while Martinelli, Ruffo, and Pinza gave their familiar interpretations of Rhadames, Amonasro, and Ramfis, respectively. Serafin conducted what turned out to be an unusually spirited performance of this very familiar opera.

A Saturday afternoon performance of "Tannhäuser" brought forward Law rence Tibbett in the rôle of Wolfram, his first appearance in that part. He gave by all odds the best performance of that character seen here in many a day. singing with great beauty of tone and an adherence to pitch often sadly lacking in the interpreters of this rôle, though it must be admitted that his make-up was not altogether happy.

Grete Stueckgold was a new Octavian in "Rosenkavalier," and a brilliant and graceful one at that, while other interesting events thus far in the season have been the revivals of Puccini's "Manon Lescaut" with Alda, Gigli, and Scotti and that of the Humperdinck "Hänse and Gretel." This little opera was beautifully done by all concerned, espe cially Dorothée Manski, who as Rosina Leckermaul did make the most delecta ble poll-parrot noises. The Humper dinck work was preceded by a youthfu indiscretion of Erik Korngold, a dul

ired

27

one-act affair yclept "Violanta," in which Madame Jeritza displayed her pulchritude and an unbelievably long

train.

E

RNESTINE SCHUMANN-HEINK sang her farewell recital in Carnegie Hall Saturday afternoon, December 10. As can well be imagined, it was an occasion for many and varied demonstrations of enthusiasm and affection. The great contralto sang a long and formidable program, which she did with as little effort as she would have displayed forty or fifty years ago. Walter Damrosch, representing Mayor Walker, who was unable to attend (and contrary to his wont missed something), presented her with a portfolio containing letters from the Governors of all the States, making a gallant remark while so doing, which was promptly and audibly rewarded with a kiss from Madame. Colonel Douglas MacKay, representing the American Legion and attended by a color-bearer with escort, presented the singer with a fine bouquet of red roses in appreciation of her patriotic work during the war.

In one of the several speeches she was forced to make Mme. Schumann-Heink called attention to the fact that, while she was retiring from the concert stage after this season, she had no intention of being idle, and would endeavor to find young singers to whom she could impart some of her knowledge of the

art of singing, provided, she added, she could find some girls who did not "smoke or powder their noses." While that proviso may entail a long search, let us hope all the same that she will find some one with the voice and intelligence to profit by her great store of knowledge and experience. The singer ended the proceedings, not inappropriately under the circumstances, with a rousing delivery of "The Star-Spangled Banner."

THE Philharmonic Orchestra, in co

operation with the Pro-Musica Society, gave a very interesting program of

novelties for the benefit of the Pension Fund of the orchestra, consisting of Ernest Schelling's symphonic poem "Morocco," a "Magnificat" by Heinrich Kaminski for solo soprano, solo viola, chorus, and orchestra, and the "Psalmus Hungaricus" of Zoltan Kodaly, for tenor solo, chorus, and orchestra.

Mr. Schelling conducted his own score, in which, according to his own. words, he has tried to translate into symphonic language the impressions left with him by some of the Berber and Chleuh music he heard last year when making a trip through the North African desert and Morocco; recollections of the "Berber Bard outside the walls of Fez, the picturesque fire-eater, and the dancing of the Ouled-Nails" all find their way into the colorful and brilliantly written score, which, however, in our opinion, would be much improved by a little judicious cutting.

The Kaminski "Magnificat," written, according to the composer, in the Bach style, is a dignified and impressive piece of work, well balanced and full of religious feeling, which deserves a second hearing. Harriet Van Emden got through the difficult vocal part most creditably, though she was somewhat overpowered by the volume of the chorus and orchestra, as indeed who wouldn't have been?

Kodaly's music is a setting of an old Hungarian version of the Fifty-fifth Psalm with interpolations and extensions. While neither modern in treatment nor of great originality, the music is sincere and poignant, rising at times to heights of tragic beauty. Richard Crooks sang the solo part with feeling and authority, while the chorus and orchestra under the direction of Mengelberg were more than equal to the occasion.

A

NY one in the neighborhood of Carnegie Hall a certain Monday night not so long ago would have decided that Mary Pickford, John Gilbert, or some other movie star was about the premises. A score or so extra policemen, hermetically sealed box-office windows, and harried and exasperated doorkeepers all gave testimony of great doings of some kind or other. The fact of the matter is that Yehudi Menuhin, that brilliant young genius of the fiddle, was giving his one and only New York recital of the season.

Now on the above-mentioned occasion we had been guilty of the lamentable oversight of leaving our tickets at home; with praiseworthy persistence and a childlike faith, we elbowed our way into the lobby, hoping for the best. ... Could we get in the front door? We could not. Could we get in the back door? We could not. Did we get in at all? We did not!

W

E asked Vivian Burnett, the original Little Lord Fauntleroy, to remember a story his mother had told him as a child. But all is grist, it seems, that comes to a writer's mill, and the only story Mrs. Burnett never put into print afterwards was "The Mournful Story of Benny," which failed dismally in its object.

Vivian had taken to playing with matches, so one day his mother began the story of Benny, who stole downstairs in his nightgown, lit a fire without permission, and was eventually burned to a crisp.

When she had finished, there was an impressive pause, then Vivian looked up, smiling.

"Mother," he begged, "please tell me some more about little Benny being burned to a crisp."

But Vivian Burnett himself has sent many a child happy to bed with his made-up tales, among them this story with a purpose, by which other small Dorothys may profit.

Illustrated by Lois Lenski

N almost every family there is

unwritten classic. It is usually the invention of one of the parents, and is sometimes passed on with variations to each succeeding younger generation. In their way, these stories are like the folk-tales of the Negroes, which Joel Chandler Harris retold under the title of "Uncle Remus."

Dorothy sat under a tree in her front yard an odd little man suddenly appeared. He had a wrinkled face and piercing black eyes that stared right through you, and he kept his hands behind his back.

"You're coming with me, Miss Dorothy," said the little man.

"Why, but I don't know if my mother will let me," began Dorothy, feeling rather frightened.

The little man laughed unpleasantly. "No matter! You may not like the place you're going, but you're going just the same."

"Why do you keep your hands behind your back?" asked Dorothy quickly, trying to change the subject.

"None of your business!" snapped the little man. "But I advise you to keep yours there if you know what's good for you. Come along, now, or shall I make you?"

"You can't make me!" cried Dorothy; "not if you keep your hands behind your back."

"Oh, can't I?" snapped the little man, and, fastening her with his piercing black eyes, he drew her straight to her feet and up in the air after him.

On and on they went, over the roof of Dorothy's home, over the schoolhouse, over the church, over hill and over dale, till they reached a strange country.

Dropping her down under a big tree, the little man disappeared. Dorothy Dorothy looked about. She was alone, and on the lowest branches of the tree hung the most beautiful fruits she had ever seen -great apples and pears and oranges and grapes, as well as many strange

grapes. But something queer had hap pened. Dorothy looked at her hands. There were no fingers left, only stumps. She had bitten them all off.

Mother had told her that the nailbiting habit grew worse and worse, but she had no idea it would come to this. What could she do? Dorothy looked about for the little man, but he was nowhere to be seen.

So, frightened and terribly ashamed, she clapped her hands behind her back and wandered on down the street, all lined with the same beautiful fruit trees. Dorothy began to notice other children some of her own friends among them and even grown people, all walking with bent heads and all holding their hands behind their backs.

Then as Dorothy turned a corner she came upon such a wonderful sight that she forgot everything else.

As far as she could see, the street was lined with Christmas trees, and on every branch hung a doll-big dolls and little dolls, black-haired and golden, brown eyed and blue, some dressed in pink sill and lace, others in blue velvet, some in cunning gingham rompers, some only it pretty underclothes, with a packed valis over their arms, waiting for a loving mother to dress them.

On the lowest branch hung a real in fant doll with a wrinkled nose and fa legs and eyes that opened and shut. I was dressed in the dearest little whit dress with blue ribbons, and as it swun gently in the breeze it cried: "Ma-ma Ma-ma!"

Dorothy stretched out both handsthen her arms fell by her side. Th baby doll still smiled on the tree, bu

Dorothy was so tired and hungry that she forgot again, and stretched out her hand towards the table. But it was no use. She had no fingers, only stumps. She had bitten them all off.

Crying and sobbing, Dorothy threw herself on the floor. She might as well die. Without fingers, there was nothing to live for. Dorothy thought of her mother. If she were here, she would find a way to help her. Mother would love her even if she had bitten her nails till there were no fingers left.

Then, on the other side of the room Dorothy saw her, in her fresh house dress, her hair shining brown and smooth as always, holding out her hands

and smiling.

"Dorothy!" she called. "Dorothy!" In a minute Dorothy was at her side. She tried to take her mother's hand, but her arm fell down uselessly. For, of

course, she had no fingers, only stumps. She had bitten them all off. Mother began to fade away like a dream, growing dim, and then bright, and dim and bright until—

eyes, under the old apple tree, and above her stood Mother, who had been trying to wake her.

"Hop up!" smiled Mother. "Father's brought you something."

But Dorothy was staring at her hands as if she had never seen them before. There were her ten fingers, all safe and sound, but the nails were ragged and bitten down to the quick. Then, so strong is habit, before she knew it, a finger was in her mouth.

"Dorothy," said her mother, "what are you doing with your hands?"

them behind her back and answer: And this time Dorothy did not clap "Nothing, Mother." She looked steadily at the ugly nails, and said, soberly: "I was starting to bite my finger-nails, but I'm not going to do it any more." And, glancing up into the tree, she saw a knot-hole that looked exactly like the face of the little old man, grinning at her.

So they went into the house, and there was Father with a big box of chocolate ice-cream he had bought on his way home from the office.

A Son of the Samurai (Continued from page 50)

one thing: He walked in the Way-the Way of the Master. In it alone his soul breathed and had its being. Outside of it, it died. If a Samurai blundered out of it, he apologized for his crime with his life. No other price was quite adequate for the offense. Father stopped.

"Just how many times have you heard me speak of this before?" father asked me.

"As often as the rain drops from the eaves," I told him.

"Yesterday you broke your father's orders."

"Yes, sir."

"You took your friend, younger than yourself, to the gate of death and-and left him there in the hands of strangers. You ran from blame like a frightened badger. But you did not stop there. You lacquered your crime with a lie. Perhaps you could. But just what made You thought you could deceive me.

you think you could blindfold Heaven? You did everything under the wideopen eyes of Heaven, didn't you?" I did not answer. I couldn't.

Just then I heard the fusuma (the upholstered partition of a Japanese room) open behind me. And an instant later I heard the gentle voice of my grandmother calling my father's name.

"Hai, mother-above," answered father, the great blade still streaming from his hand like a silver salute.

"May I have the child for a short while?" said grandmother, her voice soft and very low, as usual, but clear like the low note of a flute. "I would like to take him on a visit to the temple."

My father returned the blade into the sheath, got down on his knees on the matted floor and bowed to his mother with his forehead touching the floor: "Your pleasure, mother-above, is the law in this house-always. May I humbly wish you a pleasant visit? Always cool and quiet there at the temple in summer."

Grandmother took me by the hand and led me out of the room.

I

HAVE never learned just what father intended to do with me or with the sword. I have never asked him.

A

LL this happened, not in the Old, but in the New Nippon. There was

January 11, 1928

a law in the country at that time mak

to kill his son save only in self-defense. And it made no difference what the son did either. Unlike the feudal days, the power of life and death over his son had been taken away from a father years ago. Still my father was old-fashioned in his sense of Samurai honor. I never learned just what he intended to do with me or with the sword. I never asked him. But I was glad that my grandmother came.

T

HERE is a girl in Virginia who gives a strange story to the newspapers. She has been face

to face with the extreme terror, the terror of being buried alive, and can produce a whole funeral procession, her own, to bear witness.

She remembers the wind storm and her father's yard, the falling branch from a great tree, and the blow on her head. It was a blow that struck the secret spring of action, for after it, within her hearing, she was pronounced dead. She was unable to move as they lifted her into her coffin; she was unable to move as she lay all night awaiting her own funeral; and through the singing of the hymns and the slow procession to the graveyard, still unable to move.

At the grave, in accordance with an outworn custom, the coffin was left open for the last good-bys. Her brother leaned over and kissed her motionless face. By some extreme of emotion she made the effort of her being and succeeded only in fluttering one eyelid. But it was enough. Her brother was positive he had seen it-unbelievable as it sounded; and the mother insisted that every restorative should be used at once. A few hours later the girl was telling the story that lifts its head so strangely once or twice during a century -a story that knocks the very props from under our dearest convention, the convention of death.

THE

'HERE is a three-year-old little girl in a pink dress who went to housekeeping last week in a Staten Island police station. The policemen who listen to her story are more and more bewildered by the gossamer maze of the strange world she brought with her.

The little girl in the pink dress was found roaming the streets of St. George, hugging a large doll to a tiny bosom, and happily and confidently looking for Santa Claus. It seems she had just barely missed him round innumerable corners, and, incidentally, had missed everybody else at the same time. Her story is the candid and lovely combination of fact and fancy. But her rescuing knights, the police force, would apparently prefer the darkest murder mystery to the unraveling of the little girl's identity. She tells every one with

charming frankness that her home is in Union City, that she has lived along the Jersey shore, that her mother is "Helen," her father "Jim," and her brother "Johnny." They brought her to Staten Island, she declares, in an automobile, and she got out to look for Santa Claus. Was he going to find her at this new house, did the matron think? It was Christmas Eve, and where was the place to hang one's stocking? And if she stayed there, was he likely to know about it?

The stocking was hung, and he evidently knew about it, for the next morning the little girl in the pink dress had great difficulty in unpacking the large affair. But she has decided, according to reports, that she is found-at least, Santa Claus has found her; so now she adds a new item to her story. Her home, she tells people, is in Union City, along the Jersey coast, and, with a charming smile, here.

No wonder the policemen are mystified, since the facts are all with the little girl. Santa Claus seems to be the only actuality; for, after a week of search, "Helen" and "Jim" and "Johnny," and even the automobile, remain a myth. And, the policemen will tell you, she has not cried once since she came.

THE

HE United Press is sending out a cat-and-flying-fish story that has quite bowled the newspapers over. It is in the nature of news for the New Year, and comes from a redoubtable captain who has just returned from a trip round the world with his pet cat, Jenny. The captain boasts that Jenny is a welltrained cat, though he warns the newspapers that such training is none too easy to accomplish.

When the ship's supplies are getting low, it seems that Jenny retires with dignity to the lower deck, where she sits aft and watches for the fortune of the seas

and flying-fish that are too daring; for any flying-fish that ventures too near Jenny's watchful waiting is caught deftly by the tail and its head devoured before it recognizes this new terror of the seas. But that is as far as it goes; for Jenny is a perfect lady, and a housekeeping cat, and carefully saves the remainder of the fish for the hungry sailors.

Jenny is the captain's own cat, and he ought to know.

THE

HE news of Christmas week held a transfixing story-the death of Santa Claus.

Christmas holidays are more than holiday. Sleeping imaginations awake and spring up like Christmas flowers and the world belongs to a spirit, to chil dren, and to make-believe.

The world of 1927 belonged to an actor in love with make-believe for seventy-one years, and this year he de termined to play his dearest rôle-h was going to be Santa Claus. He was already booked for another part tha meant his bread and butter. The new play was opening the day after Christ mas, but on Christmas Eve he was du for this dearer engagement: he ha promised to go to the house of a friend and be Santa Claus for the children.

It must be remembered that this wa not an ordinary occasion, or an ordinary rôle for the old actor to undertake. I i was natural that any one who was so love with the part, and who, indeed, wa the living image of the beloved sain himself, should have been tempted ofte by large sums of money to appear as professional Santa Claus; but he wa not for hire. He knew his childhoo better than that, and declared that fo no financial bribe would he risk hi amateur standing.

In his red suit and white whisker beside his Christmas tree, and with hi hand on his unopened pack, Santa Clau heard a summons more imperative tha reindeers' feet on an icy roof. His hear that was beating too high perhap stopped suddenly, and it was the e pectant children who found him lyin underneath the tree.

There was no pretense there: San Claus was real, and Santa Claus w dead.