could not find them, and a search high and low for the missing music was without avail. Much to my chagrin, it was necessary to omit the number and send explanations and regrets to the dignitary whom it was designed to honor.

At the end of the concert, when the men were packing to go home, the player found the missing band parts stuck in the bell of his instrument, where he had placed them for safe-keeping.

In a little Michigan town my band was booked for an afternoon concert, and on our arrival the local manager assured us that we should have a good house, although there was no advance sale. He explained this by saying that the townspeople did not like to buy their tickets until the last minute.

The theatre was on the second floor of the town hall, the ground floor being given over to the fire department, the especial pride of the community. Twenty minutes before the concert a large crowd had gathered round the box-office to buy tickets when the fire-alarm sounded, and the entire population promptly deserted the muse of music and escorted the engine and hose-cart to the scene of action, leaving the band absolutely without an audience.

A Tuneful Locomotive.

Once when we were playing during warm weather in a theatre situated near a railroad, the windows were left open for ventilation. The band was rendering a Wagner selection, and at the climax was playing with increasing force. The last note to be played was a unison B flat, and as I gave the sign to the musicians to play as strong as possible the volume of sound that followed fairly astonished me. I had never heard fifty men play with such force before and could not account for it, but the explanation soon became manifest. As the band ceased playing, the same note continued in the blast of a passing locomotive that had opportunely chimed in with us in unison.

The Marine Band was once doing escort duty on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington to a body of citizen soldiery returning from camp. It was at night and the parade was preceded by a wagon-load of fireworks which were to be discharged at appropriate intervals along the line of march.

By some accident or design the entire load of pyrotechnics was simultaneously ignited, and the street immediately filled with a perfect fusillade of rockets and Roman candles.

A stampede followed and the parade faded away. I stood my ground until my eye-glasses were knocked off, and then I groped my way to the sidewalk. When the confusion had subsided, all that could be discovered of my band was the drum-major in front and the bass-drummer in the rear rank. Their comrades had fled, but these men were good soldiers, and having received no orders to disperse had stood their ground manfully.

A Tale of the White House

One more story of the White House. At the time of the unveiling of the statue of Admiral Farragut in Washington, it was suddenly proposed to have a reception at the Executive Mansion in honor of the many distinguished visitors. The informal invitations were issued while I was participating in the parade that was part of the ceremonies.

At seven o-clock in the evening, when I was at home, tired out after the long march, word came to me to report at the Marine Barracks. I went there and was ordered to take the band to the White House at eight o'clock p.m.

The bandmen did not live in barracks, and it was practically impossible to get them together at that time of night, as they were scattered all over the city.

"Well, those are my instructions and those are your orders," said the commanding officer.

So we sent the band-messengers out to the men's lodgings, and they found just one musician at home, and he was the bass-drummer.

At eight o'clock, arrayed in all the gorgeousness of my scarlet and gold uniform, I sat in front of the band platform in the White House lobby, and the bass-drummer stationed himself back in the semi-obscurity of his corner. There was a dazzling array of music-stands and empty chairs, but no musicians! The President evidently saw the humorous side of it, and when I explained the situation he said it could not be helped. All the evening we sat there and listened to humorous remarks from the guests. We had "reported for duty," though, and the drummer and I stayed till the reception was over.