"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning
towards the door; "farewell to you."
"You will come again?" asked they, in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the
blind girl. "Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, "I will come again, and give
the fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again'"
They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their
door till we were out of sight and hearing.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that sonata
while I can yet remember it!" We did so, and he sat over it till long past
day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we
are all so fondly acquainted.
* * * * *
OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.
I, who was always counted, they say,
Rather a bad stick any way,
Splintered all over with dodges and tricks,
Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;"
I, the truant, saucy and bold,
The one black sheep in my father's fold,
"Once on a time," as the stories say,
Went over the hill on a winter's day--
_Over the hill to the poor-house.
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