A large unwieldy cutter of home manufacture, the boards of which it was composed unplained and unpainted, with rope harness, and an undressed bull’s hide by way of buffalo’s, formed our equipage. But no description that I could give you would do justice to the old mare. A sorry beast she was – thick legged, rough coated, and of a dirty yellow-white. Her eyes, over one of which a film was spread, were dull as the eyes of a stale fish, and her temples so hollow, that she looked as if she had been worn out by dragging the last two generations to their graves. I was ashamed of adding one more to the many burdens she must have borne in her day, and I almost wished that she had realized in her own person the well-known verse in the Scotch song –

“The auld man’s mare’s dead,
  A mile ayont Dundee,”

before I ever had set my eyes upon her.

“Can she carry us?” said I, pausing irresolutely, with my foot on the rough heavy runner of the cutter.

“I guess she can,” quoth he. “She will skim like a bird over the snow; so get into the sleigh, and we will go straight off to the singing-school.”

It was intensely cold. I drew the collar of my great coat over my ears, and wrapped my half of the bull’s hide well round my feet, and we started. The old mare went better than could have been expected from such a skeleton of a beast. To be sure, she had no weight of flesh to encumber her motions, and we were getting on pretty well, when the music master drove too near a stump, which suddenly upset us both, and tumbled him head foremost into a bank of snow. I fortunately rolled out a-top of him, and soon extricated myself from the difficulty; but I found it no easy matter to drag my ponderous companion from beneath the snow, and the old bull’s hide in which he was completely enveloped.

The old mare stood perfectly still, gazing with her one eye intently on the mischief she had done, as if she never had been guilty of such a breach of manners before. After shaking the snow from our garments, and getting all right for a second start, my companion exclaimed in an agonized tone –

“My fiddle! Where, where is my fiddle? I can do nothing without my fiddle.”

We immediately went in search of it; but we did not succeed in finding it for some time. I had given it up in despair, and, half-frozen with cold, was stepping into the cutter to take the benefit of the old bull’s hide, when, fortunately for the music-master, one of the strings of the lost instrument snapped with the cold. We followed the direction of the sound, and soon beheld the poor fiddle sticking in a snowbank, and concealed by a projecting stump. The instrument had sustained no other injury than the loss of three of the strings.

“Well, arn’t that too bad?” says he. “I have no more catgut without sending to W—. That’s done for, at least for to-night.”

“It’s very cold,” I cried, impatiently, seeing that he was in no hurry to move on. “Do let us be going. You can examine your instrument better in the house than standing up to your knees in the snow.”

“I was born in the Backwoods,” say he; “I don’t feel the cold.” Then jumping into the cutter, he gave me the fiddle to take care of, and pointing with the right finger of his catskin gloves to a solitary house on the top of a bleak hill, nearly a mile a-head, he said, –“That white building is the place where the school is held.”

We soon reached the spot. “This is the old Methodist church, mister, and a capital place for the voice. There is no furniture or hangings to interrupt the sound. Go right in, while I hitch the mare; I will be arter you in a brace of shakes.”

I soon found myself in the body of the old dilapidated church, and subjected to the stare of a number of very unmusical-looking girls and boys, who, certainly from their appearance, would never have led you to suppose that they ever could belong to a Philharmonic society. Presently, Mr. Browne made his début.

Assuming an air of great importance as he approached his pupils, he said –“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your notice Mr. H—, the celebrated vocalist. He has cum all the way from New York on purpose to hear you sing.”

The boys grinned at me and twirled their thumbs, the girls nudged one another’s elbows and giggled, while their eloquent teacher continued –

“I don’t know as how we shall be able to do much to-night; we upset, and that spilt my fiddle into the snow. You see,” – holding it up –“it’s right full of it, and that busted the strings. A dropsical fiddle is no good, no how. Jist look at the water dripping out of her.”

Again the boys laughed, and the girls giggled. Said he –“Hold on, don’t laugh; it’s no laughing matter, as you’ll find.”

After a long pause, in which the youngsters tried their best to look grave, he went on –

“Now all of you, girls and boys, give your attention to my instructions this evening. I’m goin’ to introduce a new style, for your special benefit, called the Pest-a-lazy (Pestalozzi) system, now all the fashion.