It was the evening study hour at Nicholas Chopin's boarding-school. Twenty-five lads belonging to the oldest families of Warsaw were assembled in the schoolroom, preparing lessons for the following day.

The place was large, well lighted, and comfortably warmed; good pictures hung on the walls, and racks of books filled every available nook. At the upper end of the room, near the master's desk, stood an open piano; and at the lower, a table bearing plates, cups, and wholesome refreshments which would be distributed among the boys when study-hour was over. Throughout the room great cheerfulness and comfort reigned, and the apple-cheeked boys at the desks showed that they were generously cared for under this kindly roof. They were mostly little fellows, ranging in age from eight to twelve years, and a merrier company one would journey far to find.

When Nicholas Chopin sat behind the desk, this hour was always a quiet one; for while he was indulgent with the boys out of school, furthering their enjoyment with all his heart, he was also a strict and thorough teacher, who would tolerate no disturbance from the pupils during lesson-time.

But to-night the master was absent, and the new assistant, a mild-eyed, pale young man, sat in Nicholas Chopin's chair and sought to keep the boys at their tasks. He had been among them but two or three days, and at the very beginning the pupils had decided that this was his first attempt at teaching. His soft voice and worried look filled the boys with glee; and half their playtime was spent in making plans to mock and deride him. Until now, however, they had failed to carry out their mischievous schemes, for Nicholas Chopin had compelled them to treat the new assistant with respectful obedience. But to-night the master had gone from home, leaving his assistant in full charge of the school, and the boys threw all rules to the winds for the sole purpose of vexing the new teacher.

Instead of the usual stillness maintained at this hour, the room was a-buzz with whispers. The boys noisily shuffled their feet, rattled their papers, and tossed their books about on their desks. The teacher rapped sharply with his ruler again and again, but these warnings were greeted with impudent chuckles and laughter.

At one of the side desks sat FrÉdÉric Chopin, the master's son, toiling at a much blotted copy-book. He was heartily liked by every boy in the house, and for some reason, whenever he spoke in his quiet way, the others obeyed his wishes without a syllable of complaint. John Skotricki, who had the strongest arms and legs at school, was the ringleader on the playground; but FrÉdÉric was chief councillor and fun-maker at all other times and places. Although the master's son, he enjoyed no special favor or liberty, but was held to the same line of duty prescribed for the other students. In the classroom he was not noticeably clever, for he was very bad at numbers, and it is doubtful if he could have found his own country on the great globe in the corner; but there was one thing that FrÉdÉric Chopin could do better than any other boy in the school, better than any other boy in Warsaw, better, probably, than any other boy in all the country of Poland: he could play magnificently on the piano. So remarkably he played that everybody wondered, and strangers often came to the house for a glimpse of the young musician.

A year before, when he was nine, he had played at a great charity concert given in the city hall, and after the performance the people had surged by the stage to shake his hand and praise him; and in the excitement and pleasure of it all, he might have become very vain of his powers and success, but he remembered just in time that while he could play brilliantly on the piano, he could not jump as far by ten inches as John Skotricki, and that he did not know as much about grammar as the youngest pupil at school.

One boy who had attended the concert, and who loved music passionately, was the young Prince Radziwill. He decided that evening that he would like to know the boy pianist, and soon it was no uncommon thing for the prince's carriage to roll up to the Chopin school. FrÉdÉric went often with the young nobleman to drive, sometimes even accompanying him home to the palace; but of these things he never spoke to the boys at school, and not one of them was jealous because FrÉdÉric had become the prince's friend.

He practised diligently for many hours every day in his own room; but he never mentioned the subject of music to the other lads, and when in their company he was as happy-go-lucky as any schoolboy in Warsaw.

To-night, however, when he saw the new teacher's face flush with displeasure in the noisy schoolroom, he felt a bit sorry, for he knew that the young man would prove to be a good-natured companion if he were not enraged at the outset.

FrÉdÉric glanced uneasily about him from time to time as the confusion increased, realizing that even the most patient of teachers would not long endure such rebellion. He, as much as any one, enjoyed the antics that kept the whole school tittering, and was strongly tempted to join in the mutiny; but he had promised his father to stand by the new assistant this evening, and he felt honor-bound to do it.

The crisis came when John Skotricki leaped from his seat and ran down the room in pursuit of a boy who had given him a cuff on the ear in passing. The teacher sprang up with an angry light in his eye, and flourished the ruler threateningly. FrÉdÉric exchanged glances with the assistant, and threw down his pen with the announcement,—

"Boys, if you'll all be quiet in your seats, I'll tell you a story."

The others, supposing that FrÉdÉric was on their side, and that this was a part of the joke, folded their arms; and instantly the room grew so still that one could hear the ticking of the clock in the hall beyond.

FrÉdÉric turned out all the lights, for "a story always sounds better in the dark," he explained. Then seating himself at the piano, he began to speak, playing all the while music that helped to tell his story.

Every student rested his arms on his desk, and bent attentively to listen.

"Once upon a time there stood a great house on the bank of a lonely river." (Here came a lightly running passage on the piano, like the rippling of water.) "A band of robbers riding through the country paused in the glade at nightfall. Seeing the old mansion by the river side, they decided to force an entrance at midnight and carry away the gold and jewels that were probably secreted there.

"They laid their plans carefully" (sounds of many gruff, deep-toned voices, one at a time, then all together in a rumbling chorus), "and at the solemn hour they had chosen" (twelve clanging tones), "they tied their horses farther up the dell, and marched, two by two, toward the house by the swirling river. Noiselessly they approached and surrounded the many-pinnacled dwelling, each robber choosing a window through which he would make his entrance. At the signal of the leader" (a high faint trill), "each man climbed to his window ledge, sawed straight through the iron bars that protected it" (a steady rasping sound as of edged tools), "and ripped out the glass with the point of his dagger" (tinklings as of shattered crystal).

"Now for the treasures! Each man had one foot inside the house, and one hand on the inner sill, when, all at once, lights flared up in every room" (a reckless sweep of notes), "dogs barked fiercely, shouts were heard from the upper corridors, pistol-shots burst on the stillness of the night, and the robbers leaped from their perches, rolling over and over in the mud below" (loud discordant notes, and the bang, bang of the pistols mingled with the furious growling and yelping of dogs).

"Gaining their feet in a twinkling, the robbers fled as swiftly as though wearing wings on their boots; and reaching the horses in breathless fright, they swung themselves into their saddles and galloped madly away. Hour after hour they rode" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat of the hoof-beats), "through valley and village and glen. On, on they spurred" (pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat), "until they came to a deep, dense forest. Into its shadows they plunged, knowing that here they would be safe at last from the dogs and the men who lived in the house by the rolling river.

"They pulled up their horses and listened" (silence), "and listened" (silence), "but heard no pursuing feet. So, dismounting, they turned their horses loose to nibble at will, and jaded by hours of reckless riding, the robbers threw themselves upon the green turf to rest. The scents of the flowers were sweet, the grass was deep and soft, the leaves overhead rustled, rustled, rustled, and ere long, in the cool of the summer's dawn, the weary robbers—fell—asleep."

So quietly had FrÉdÉric spoken, so softly had he played as he described the woodland sounds, that, gently touching the final chord, he discovered, by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, that twenty-four boys, like the tired robbers, were fast asleep.

"Like the tired robbers, were fast asleep."

Stealing from the room on tiptoe, he summoned his sisters and the servants to bring in lights; then stepping to the piano, he struck one crashing chord.

As though a bomb had exploded among them, the boys started from their slumbers, rubbing their eyes and staring stupidly at one another.

At that moment the clock chimed the hour of dismissal, and Nicholas Chopin entered the room; whereupon the pupils bounded from their seats with shouts of laughter over the musical spell that FrÉdÉric had cast upon them.

When the cups and plates went round, the new teacher drew the master into the hall and told him how cleverly FrÉdÉric had helped him to maintain order; but in the schoolroom the lads were waving their sandwiches and napkins, and cheering the master's son as a jolly comrade and a true-blue mate.

>The city of Warsaw adored its composer, FrÉdÉric Chopin. The residents detected hidden meanings in his playing of the piano which they believed would sometime be accepted beyond the realm of Poland.

He was young, handsome, and gay, and his companionship was sought on every side. Had not his breast been stirred by an impulse stronger than the mere desire for popularity, FrÉdÉric Chopin would have developed into nothing more than an elegant young musician, the acknowledged favorite of his fellow-townsmen. But he was not content to end his career so tamely. He must see the world. He must conquer the public beyond his native land. He must play, he must compose, he must work and study to greater ends.

Accordingly, one day in November, at the age of twenty-one, he set out for Vienna. When he found himself actually leaving kindred and home behind, a flood of sadness swept over him.

"I shall never return," he groaned; "my eyes will never look upon Warsaw again!"

His friends responded lightly to these fears, and with their words of cheer he soon recovered his usual bright spirit.

He was escorted as far as the first day's travel would carry him by a score of affectionate friends; and at the end of a banquet given in his honor, he was touched to the heart by one of their number presenting to him a silver goblet filled with Polish earth, with entreaties that he would meet the world as a man, and keep his country in constant remembrance.

In Vienna he attracted much attention by his playing, and at the end of a year he was accounted one of the leading musical spirits of the city.

He had decided to pay a brief visit to his home and friends, when on his way he was horrified to learn that his beloved Poland had been seized by the Russians, that his country was in the hands of the enemy, and that Warsaw was converted into a camp of foreign soldiers. He dared not advance farther, as all absent Poles had been warned by the new Government to keep away from Poland, on pain of death.

FrÉdÉric was nearly crushed by these unlooked-for tidings, and, only waiting to learn that his parents were safe and well, he set his face toward Paris. Here he decided to make his home, as had so many others of his exiled countrymen. Success in this city meant success in the world, and for this FrÉdÉric Chopin labored through the following years.

His playing was so rare, so peculiarly delicate, that no one in Paris could approach him in his chosen style. One critic called him "the piano god," another, "Velvet Fingers"; and when his compositions were printed, and the people could play them for themselves, they were nigh transported by his genius.

London vainly besought him to take up his residence there, but he steadily refused, remaining for the rest of his days in Paris, the pride of the Parisians and the idol of the many Poles who, like himself, were exiled from their native land.

When the end came, and the "velvet fingers" were stilled at last, he was buried from the Church of the Madeleine. Crowds of distinguished persons and homeless Poles attended the sacred service, and the procession was numbered by hundreds, that, to the strains of his own "Funeral March," followed FrÉdÉric Chopin to the tomb.

Finally, when his body was lovingly laid in the place prepared for it, one of his countrymen brought forth the silver goblet which for nineteen years the composer had fondly cherished, and, as the sweetest benediction he could offer, reverently took a handful of Polish earth and sprinkled it upon the body of FrÉdÉric of Warsaw.

[4] Chopin (pronounced Sho-pang).