standing also, as you must read with the spirit and read with the understanding also. It is the same thing with bird-stuffing. Any fool can ram tow into a skin and thrust wires into the neck, but what is the result? You must stuff birds with the spirit and stuff with the understanding also—or it is naught."
"I suppose it is the same with everything one does—one must do it heartily and intelligently."
"Exactly! Now you should see my boy, Oliver. Have you ever met him?"
"I think I have; but, to be truthful, I do not recollect him, sir."
"I will bring you his likeness—in miniature. It is in the next room." Up jumped Mr. Menaida, and ran through the opening in the wall, and returned in another moment with the portrait, and gave it into Judith's hands.
"A fine fellow is Oliver! Look at his nose how straight it is. Not like mine—that is a pump-handle. He got his good looks from his mother, not from me. Ah!" He reseated himself at the piano, and ran—incorrectly—over a scale. "It is all the pleasure I have in life, to think of my boy, and to look at his picture, and read his letters, and drink the port he sends me first-rate stuff. He writes admirable letters, and never a month passes but I receive one. It would come expensive if he wrote direct, so his letter is enclosed in the business papers sent to the house at Bristol, and they forward it to me. You shall read his last—out loud. It will give me a pleasure to hear it read by you."
"If I read properly, Mr. Menaida—with the spirit and with the understanding."
"Exactly! But you could not fail to do that looking at the cheerful face in the miniature, and reading his words—pleasant and bright as himself. Pity you have not seen him; well, that makes something to live for. He has dark hair and blue eyes—not often met together, and when associated, very refreshing. Wait! I'll go after the letter: only, bless my soul! where is it? What coat did I have on when I read it? I'll call Jump. She may remember. Wait! do you recall this?"
He stumbled over something on the keys which might have been anything.
"It is Haydn. I will tell you what I think: Mozart I
