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I have been studying the horn to some extent myself.  Nothing is more delightful than to have sweet music at home in the evenings.  It lightens the burdens of care, it soothes the ruffled feelings, it exercises a refining influence upon the children, it calms the passions and elevates the soul.  A few months ago I thought that it might please my family if I learned to play upon the French horn.  It is a beautiful instrument, and after hearing a man perform on it at a concert I resolved to have one.  I bought a splendid one in the city, and concluded not to mention the fact to any one until I had learned to play a tune.  Then I thought I would serenade Mrs. A. some evening and surprise her.  Accordingly, I determined to practice in the garret.  When I first tried the horn I expected to blow only a few gentle notes until I learned how to handle it; but when I put the mouth-piece to my lips, no sound was evoked.  Then I blew harder.  Still the horn remained silent.  Then I drew a full breath and sent a whirlwind tearing through the horn; but no music came.  I blew at it for half an hour, and then I ran a wire through the instrument to ascertain if anything blocked it up.  It was clear.  Then I blew softly and fiercely, quickly and slowly.  I opened all the stops.  I puffed and strained and worked until I feared an attack of apoplexy.  Then I gave it up and went down stairs; and Mrs. A. asked me what made me look so red in the face.  For four days I labored with that horn, and got my lips so puckered up and swollen that I went about looking as if I was perpetually trying to whistle.  Finally, I took the instrument back to the store and told the man that the horn was defective.  What I wanted was a horn with insides to it; this one had no more music to it than a terra-cotta drainpipe.  The man took it in his hand, put it to his lips and played “Sweet Spirit, Hear my Prayer,” as easily as if he were singing.  He said that what I needed was to fix my mouth properly, and he showed me how.

After working for three more afternoons in the garret the horn at last made a sound.  But it was not a cheering noise; it reminded me forcibly of the groans uttered by Butterwick’s horse when it was dying last November.  The harder I blew, the more mournful became the noise, and that was the only note I could get.  When I went down to supper, Mrs. A. asked me if I heard that awful groaning.  She said she guessed it came from Twiddler’s cow, for she heard Mrs. Twiddler say yesterday that the cow was sick.

For four weeks I could get nothing out of that horn but blood-curdling groans; and, meantime, the people over the way moved to another house because our neighborhood was haunted, and three of our hired girls resigned successively for the same reason.

Finally, a man whom I consulted told me that “No One to Love” was an easy tune for beginners; and I made an effort to learn it.