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"Let's see how your scales have improved since last week." Donna
pushed aside the realization that the last time she had played her
scales had been at her last lesson, and forged her way through them.
"You'd better work on those again next week," decided Miss Winston,
tactfully not mentioning that it was obvious they had not been worked
on at all between lessons. "Five times a day should help your speed.
Now let's see how your Czerny exercises are coming." Donna flinched
inwardly, for this was by far the worst part of the lesson. It was fine
for old Miss Winston to like these pieces. Donna could almost picture
the lady happily running through the dry scale-like exercises for hour
upon hour. But it was all so dead! She glanced out of the nearby
window where the music of the wind blustered gaily, without the least
hint of practice or precision. Stifling a sigh, Donna blundered through
Czemy with a decided lack of both coordination and enthusiasm.

"No, no, child. You must play it with more precision." The girl
stood while Miss Winston took her place at the piano. Her withered
fingers raced through the exercise with assurance, drawing forth light
cascades of harmony. Donna stood by the window and listened-
listened to the wind as it romped through the yard. "You should be
playing it like that," insisted the piano teacher, moving back to her
chair, "and you could if you would only practice. This is the meat
of piano playing, and you can't expect to play the beautiful pieces,
which are the dessert, until you have some solid sustenance in you.
Try it once more." Donna tried, but her mind was directed more to-
ward nasty thoughts of Mr. Czemy and his sadistic precision exercises.

.. "Well, that's enough time on that today." The teacher sounded
as weary as the student felt." Let's go on and hear your Beethoven;
I know you have been working on that." Donna did enjoy Beethoven.
His music was something living, a vibrant patch in the otherwise
dead musical vista. The girl thrust her attention and energy into the
strong chords. They were like oaks-old, wise, powerful-standing firm
as the March wind bolted past. Beside the girl, Miss Winston blinked
slowly. Her eyes were like an owl's, so big, blank, and hooded. Donna
pictured Miss Winston as an owl, perched up in Beethoven's oak
tree, blinking at the music. She lost track of the notes she was play-
ing, and her fingers stuttered on the keys.

"Child," the word grated into her fantasy. "Stop daydreaming,
now. You're getting lost, and your expression isn't right on this last
page. I'd like you to go over it once again, but your time is up. I
know you can do it, though, so we won't worry about it.

Donna relaxed. The lesson was over; she was free. She as-
sembled her music books and stepped lightly away from the piano.

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