Musical training would have done him no good, and it
might have done him harm. He could not have sung a false note if he had
tried; discord really pained him.
"Wal, we may's well begin," he said when he had thoroughly warmed his
hands. "What ye got for singin' books here? Dulcimers, or Harps of
Judah? All with Harps raise yer right hands. So. Now all with Dulcimers,
left hands. So. Harps have it. Them with Dulcimers better get Harps, if
ye can, 'cause we want to sing together. But to-night we'll try voices.
I wouldn't wonder if there might be some of ye who might just as well go
home and shell corn as try to sing." And he laughed. "So in the first
place we'll see if you can sing, and then what part you can sing,
whether it's tribble, or counter, or bass, or tenor. The best way for us
to find out is to have you sing the scale--the notes of music. Now these
are the notes of music." And without recourse to tuning fork he sang:
"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do."
The old schoolhouse seemed to swell to the mellow harmony from his big
throat. To me those eight notes, as Bear-Tone sang them, were a sudden
revelation of what music may be.
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