The Koreans are very fond of music, and the children on the street are always singing. On a summer evening they will gather in little companies and sing in unison their queer little " Mother Goose " melodies. Each one shouts at the top of his or her voice, and at a little distance the effect is not disagreeable. The commonest of all these songs, and one that is familiar to every child in Korea, begins as follows:
On Saijai's slope, in Mungyung town
We hew the paktal namu down
To make the smooth and polished clubs
With which the washerwoman drubs
Her master's clothes.
And then follows a chorus which has about as much sense as our own classical
Hei diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle.
This song has innumerable verses, and can be indefinitely extended by clever improvisation.
In the spring, when the grasses and rushes are beginning to grow, almost every child will have his little reed whistle, just as American boys have their willow whistles, but the Korean instrument is quite different from ours. It is made on the principle of the flageolet. Two of the reeds are usually tied together so that a double note is produced.
One of the most characteristic Korean sounds is that of a very shrill, cornet-like instrument, which drones out a weird minor strain of a summer evening. No Westerner will ever quite understand why the Korean takes such pleasure in the monotonous but strident note of this implement of torture.
Music is considered one of the lesser arts, not only in Korea but also in China. As a profession, music occupies much the same position here that ballet-dancing does in the West. The best that can be said of it is that it is not necessarily disreputable. There are no professional singers in Korea, except the
