SHORT STORY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16987, 10 March 1923, Page 2 (Supplement)

SHORT STORY.

VAUDEVILLE. AN AMATEUR COMPETITION (Written for the “ Star ” by MRS E. BAIZEENT.) At last tli© curtain was rung up, ana th© performance began. The box m •which Tony Sinclair was seated held others also, but his seat was at tb± corner nearest th© stage, and he could have touched the boards with his hands. In th© box directly opposite, and in th© place corresponding with his own, was a blase-appearing young man, in evening clot-lies, who seemed bored to death. His look was an index to the feelings of th© whole of the packed house, who still were patient in view of th© fact that the greater treat ol' the evening wus still in store. The audience gave its whole attention to an important-appearing man ■who now stepped forward from the wings. He held a paper in his liana, nrul from it- he read the name of Cornelius McCarthy, who was announced as an “ eccentric dancer. 0 (Con was the first competitor). Tony had seen the corroboree of Australian Blacks, the haka of th© Maoris, and the war-dances of South Sea Islanders. But never anything comparable with the weird gymnastics of Mr Oon. M’Car thy. Con eat down, and beat a tattoo on the floor with his hands and feet. He danced on his knees and on his hands. H<* stood on his head and paddled the aii- with his feet. He ran the length of the stage on toes and finger-tips, clicking his heels together the while. He lay on the floor and drummed the boards with his bluchers. But not for one moment did h© stand upright upon, the lengthy pedal supports with which Nature had provided him. His efforts were entirely to th© taste of the audience, however, and a shower of small coins fell upon the stag© as he proceeded with the “ dance.” But Tony kept liis few small coins untouched in tb© comer of his vest-packet. Not. for such unsightly antics were his offerings to be moved. He had come there in a sporting hope. He may be induced to throw those coins away from him, and he may not—he wanted at least a little value for the extravaganoe. Mr M'Oarthy finally bunched himself into a ball, and rolled off the stage, while the sleek-haired herald picked up the spoils.

The next item was a "song ana dance ” turn by a Miss Japoniea Dacre, a short, fat girl, who appeared wearing an ostrich-like skirt, long black stockings, and a wide smile. She nodded confidently to the conductor o: the orchestra* smoothed the folds of her inadequate skirt, and waited, beaming, for the signal from the conductor. Then she opened her mouth, and began to sing. An awful outevy was let loose upon that petrmeld audience when Miss Dacre got her lungs working. It rvas no song; but ratW it was a long-sustained, tuneless beilow, and for a few moments the crown sat’silent, lost in sheer wonder. But by the time the smiling joke hod reached the third line of her song, the audience had recovered its self-posses-sion. Then, a roar that drowned the vocalist’s most piercing not© came as one erv from a thousand throats. - fount Out 1” they screamed. “ One-two-three 1” The important-looking man who was conducting the performance stepped up to the young lady, she stopped singing after one vim attempt against the heavy hand on her sh.odder, and the great, counting multitude. As she was dragged off -Tony

Sinclair and the bored young man oppodte exchanged grateful glances. The item following was wholly pleasant. A ragged youth of twenty hopped forward upon one leg and one crutch; his other leg had been amputated at the knee. He sang a song about home and mother —daisies in the dell -old church bell, etc. The boy’s voice ivas thin and cracked, almost distressing in its lack of musical quality. But the crowd listened respectfully, and th* nailery boys lent lusty aid in the choruses And when the song was finished there was a mighty cheering, followed by a merry chink of money failing on the stage. Indeed, so many coins were thrown that the oily herald was obliged to sweep them together witih a broom ; then the money was placed in the lame boy’s hat, and be departed, amid ringing cheers. Tony kept his coins. Next came Bert Stokes, described as a. humorous entertainer. Mr Stokes was not humorous; he was vulgar, and he failed to entertain. The count was called for in his case, and though lie seemed unwilling to leave his place in the glow of the limelight, the heavy persuasion against him was too stiong, and he wont his way, coinless. The audience was now in high good humour a condition which was modihed and slightly chilled by the crier's in-xt announcement. He called the name of Clew Oardello, “ popularlv known as ‘ Little Italy.’ ” who would fling selections from Italian opera. A tirini hush fell upon the crowd. And ■Lhe set faces in the auditorium showed little sympathy for the promised efforts of Cleto Cardello. But a different epirit pervadod the little group of instrumentalists in the orchestral enclosure. Violins were tuned up, the cornetist and the trombone player paid delicate attention to their brasses, and the frayed conductor instructed his Wad in stage whispers. A stocky, blank-eyed Italian boy, dressed in a shirt and loo.se tiousers, -walked on, tramping heavily in his ■clumsy boots. A cap was set jauntily mi the side of his head, and he kept his hands in his pockets as ho stooped ard whispered to the conductor. There tri- dead silence throughout the theatre A few low notes from the orc v.oqtr?. and then the Tjlace was filled ■with a Hood of beautiful, golden music. •« Non ti scorda —non ti scorda di 3XI The boy’s bead was held high, exposing the round, olive throat. And ?r,tn the blackness filled with faces. seen, he wealth of

liquid melody; tender, passionate, appealing, triumphant. The grimy theatre was a rose-garden, the yellow patch on the drop-scene was the summer moon, and the sound of th© song v as that of the nightingale singing his love to his mate in the laurels. Every artist —yes, and every worker knows the glorious intoxication which accompanies work well done. The boy knew that his work was good : knew that his faultless voice thrilled some "’ho felt and understood the impression that his untaught instinct prompted him to convey. For he was an artist, and the artist finds some reward, even when he alone understands his appeal to the finer instincts of his kind. And those third-rate, back-number musicians in the orchestra—how tenderly they hugged their violins! How wistfully they followed every inflection, striving to identify their efforts with those of this master-musician, this dusty street-boy, this prince born o the purple in a world where they were hewers of wood and drawers of water. The audience applauded, m a strangely restrained way. ’They realised that the quality of the music was far above the ordinary at these “ free-to-all ” competitions. But no ring of money accompanied the hand-clapping, and almost before the boy had left tlio stage the applause had ceased- Tony with difficulty roused himself from the sweetly luminous trance of joy into which the soft, soft music had swayed him by its wonderful magic—in time to throw his few. poorly inadequate coins on to the stage. . . There were two more very indifferent performers before the judging was announced. Prizes of three, two and one guineas were awarded- The three guineas wont to the one-legged boy, upon acciamatorv votes from the audience. Con M’Carthy got two guineas, and a Miss Lemon, who had toyed with large Indian clubs, and was described as “ a muscular lady,” received the third prize! It was cool in the street after the stuffy theatre, where the crowds of bustling good-humoured people were all home-going and happy. The bells of four lines of cars kept up a merrv clangour. But the din that surrounded Tony was faint and muffled : submerged beneath waves of a melody that surged and throbbed —pealing notes of love an i entreaty: “Non ti scorda —non ti scorda dime!” Tony took off his hat in the cool air. “ He’s an artist—an artist! and he’ll win out for sure in the big world’s competition. Non scorda —- non ti scorda dime!” he sighed.