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Your brother,

Ervin



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There was a vast crowd in the public grounds that night to hear the band
play the "Fremersberg." This piece tells one of the old legends of the
region; how a great noble of the Middle Ages got lost in the mountains, and
wandered about with his dogs in a violent storm, until at last the faint
tones of a monastery bell, calling the monks to a midnight service, caught
his ear, and he followed the direction the sounds came from and was saved. A
beautiful air ran through the music, without ceasing, sometimes loud and
strong, sometimes so soft that it could hardly be distinguished--but it was
always there; it swung grandly along through the shrill whistling of the
storm-wind, the rattling patter of the rain, and the boom and crash of the
thunder; it wound soft and low through the lesser sounds, the distant ones,
such as the throbbing of the convent bell, the melodious winding of the
hunter's horn, the distressed bayings of his dogs, and the solemn chanting
of the monks; it rose again, with a jubilant ring, and mingled itself with
the country songs and dances of the peasants assembled in the convent hall
to cheer up the rescued huntsman while he ate his supper. The instruments
imitated all these sounds with a marvelous exactness. More than one man
started to raise his umbrella when the storm burst forth and the sheets of
mimic rain came driving by; it was hardly possible to keep from putting your
hand to your hat when the fierce wind began to rage and shriek; and it was
NOT possible to refrain from starting when those sudden and charmingly real
thunder-crashes were let loose.