"Why, Penrod, where DID you learn
to play like this?"
These were vague and shimmering glories of vision rather than
definite plans for his life work, yet he did with all his will
determine to own and play upon some roaring instrument of brass.
And, after all, this was no new desire of his; it was only an old
one inflamed to take a new form. Nor was music the root of it,
for the identical desire is often uproarious among them that hate
music. What stirred in Penrod was new neither in him nor in the
world, but old--old as old Adam, old as the childishness of man.
All children have it, of course: they are all anxious to Make a
Noise in the World.
While the band approached, Penrod marked the time with his feet;
then he fell into step and accompanied the musicians down the
street, keeping as near as possible to the little man with the
big horn. There were four or five other boys, strangers, also
marching with the band, but these were light spirits, their
flushed faces and prancing legs proving that they were merely in
a state of emotional reaction to music. Penrod, on the contrary,
was grave.
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