MEET ME ON THE BARRICADES

brasses the dark waters of Finland seethed and
hissed.

Now. this seething and hissing was achieved, to
some degree, by means of the woodwinds: the clari-
nets, bassoons, English horns and oboes. And in the
midst of the woodwind choir, impervious to Turano’s
tantrums, sat P. Herbert Simpson [P for Peter],
oboist, a little, baldish, guileless man in his middle
forties. His talent as a musician and his physical ap-
pearance, however, were singularly contrasting.

Simpson played easily, one might say absently, for
he had long since acquired that co-ordination of
hand, heart and ear which makes for the superbly
talented performer. His embouchure, that is to say,
the tension of his mouth, jaw and facial muscles, was
perfect. His fingering was delicate and yet so sure
that he was able to play more than competently while
lost in the deepest thought.

At the moment his pale blue eyes absently fol-
lowed the score while his instrument emitted reedy:
plaintive tones. To all appearances he was com-
pletely absorbed in his work, but as a matter of fact
he was lost in a form of contemplation in which the
realistic present played an exceedingly insignificant
r6le. In short, P. Herbert Simpson was at it again. He
was daydreaming!

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