pom-pom! oom, pom-pom!
Tiddle-tiddle-tiddle oom pom-pom!
Oom, pom-pom—pah!
“What is it, a band or a mouth-organ?” asked Dorothy.
“Don’t know,” said Button-Bright.
“Sounds to me like a played-out phonograph,” said the shaggy man, lifting his enormous ears to listen.
“Oh, there just COULDN’T be a funnygraf in Fairyland!” cried Dorothy.
“It’s rather pretty, isn’t it?” asked Polychrome, trying to dance to the strains.
Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,
Oom pom-pom; oom pom-pom!
came the music to their ears, more distinctly as they drew nearer the house. Presently, they saw a little fat man sitting on a bench before the door. He wore a red, braided jacket that reached to his waist, a blue waistcoat, and white trousers with gold stripes down the sides. On his bald head was perched a little, round, red cap held in place by a rubber elastic underneath his chin. His face was round, his eyes a faded blue, and he wore white cotton gloves. The man leaned on a stout gold-headed cane, bending forward on his seat to watch his visitors approach.
Singularly enough, the musical sounds they had heard seemed to come from the inside of the fat man himself; for he was playing no instrument nor was any to be seen near him.
They came up and stood in a row, staring at him, and he stared back while the queer sounds came from him as before:
Tiddle-iddle-iddle, oom pom-pom,
Oom, pom-pom; oom pom-pom!
Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,
Oom, pom-pom—pah!
“Why, he’s a reg’lar musicker!” said Button-Bright.
“What’s a musicker?” asked Dorothy.
“Him!” said the boy.
Hearing this, the fat man sat up a little stiffer than before, as if he had received a compliment, and still came the sounds:
Tiddle-widdle-iddle, oom pom-pom,
Oom pom-pom, oom—
“Stop it!” cried the shaggy man, earnestly. “Stop that dreadful noise.”
The fat man looked at him sadly and began his reply. When he spoke the music changed and the words seemed to accompany the notes. He said—or rather sang:
It isn’t a noise that you hear,
But Music, harmonic and clear.
My breath makes me play
Like an organ, all day—
That bass note is in my left ear.
“How funny!” exclaimed Dorothy; “he says his breath makes the music.”
“That’s all nonsense,” declared the shaggy man; but now the music began again, and they all listened carefully.
My lungs are full of reeds like those
In organs, therefore I suppose,
If I breathe in or out my nose,
The reeds are bound to play.
So as I breathe to live, you know,
I squeeze out music as I go;
I’m very sorry this is so—
Forgive my piping, pray!
“Poor man,” said Polychrome; “he can’t help it. What a great misfortune it is!”
“Yes,” replied the shaggy man; “we are only obliged to hear this music a short time, until we leave him and go away; but the poor fellow must listen to himself as long as he lives, and that is enough to drive him crazy. Don’t you think so?”
“Don’t know,” said Button-Bright. Toto said, “Bow-wow!” and the others laughed.
“Perhaps that’s why he lives all alone,” suggested Dorothy.
“Yes; if he had neighbors, they might do him an injury,” responded the shaggy man.
All this while the little fat musicker was breathing the notes:
Tiddle-tiddle-iddle, oom, pom-pom,
and they had to speak loud in order to hear themselves. The shaggy man said:
“Who are you, sir?”
The reply came in the shape of this singsong:
I’m Allegro da Capo, a very famous man;
Just find another, high or low, to match me if you can.
Some people try, but can’t, to play
And have to practice every day;
But I’ve been musical always, since first my life began.
“Why, I b’lieve he’s proud of it,” exclaimed Dorothy; “and seems to me I’ve heard worse music than he makes.”
“Where?” asked Button-Bright.
“I’ve forgotten, just now. But Mr. Da Capo is certainly a strange person—isn’t he?—and p’r’aps he’s the only one of his kind in all the world.”
This praise seemed to please the little fat musicker, for he swelled out his chest, looked important and sang as follows:
I wear no band around me,
And yet I am a band!
I do not strain to make my strains
But, on the other hand,
My toot is always destitute
Of flats or other errors;
To see sharp and be natural are
For me but minor terrors.
“I don’t quite understand that,” said Polychrome, with a puzzled look; “but perhaps it’s because I’m accustomed only to the music of the spheres.”
“What’s that?” asked Button-Bright.
“Oh, Polly means the atmosphere and hemisphere, I s’pose,” explained Dorothy.
“Oh,” said Button-Bright.
“Bow-wow!” said Toto.
But the musicker was still breathing his constant
Oom, pom-pom; Oom pom-pom—
and it seemed to jar on the shaggy man’s nerves.
“Stop it, can’t you?” he cried angrily; “or breathe in a whisper; or put a clothes-pin on your nose. Do something, anyhow!”
But the fat one, with a sad look, sang this answer:
Music hath charms, and it may
Soothe even the savage, they say;
So if savage you feel
Just list to my reel,
For sooth to say that’s the real way.
The shaggy man had to laugh at this, and when he laughed he stretched his donkey mouth wide open. Said Dorothy:
“I don’t know how good his poetry is, but it seems to fit the notes, so that’s all that can be ‘xpected.”
“I like it,” said Button-Bright, who was staring hard at the musicker, his little legs spread wide apart. To the surprise of his companions, the boy asked this long question:
“If I swallowed a mouth-organ, what would I be?”
“An organette,” said the shaggy man. “But come, my dears; I think the