Sunday the minister didn't talk about sports. Instead, his subject was healing.
"For most of what ails us," he announced with great authority in his clear, deep voice, "the best medicine is a dose of love. And if that doesn't work, double the dose!"
I didn't know what else I could do to show my love for Orwell. Already, he had more food than he could eat. His hideout was as nice a place as any rabbit could reasonably expect. Taking him outside again didn't seem like such a good idea. With my grandmother's help, he was going to have a chance at walking, although that chance could turn out to be like your chances for winning the lottery. What could I do that I wasn't already doing?
Somehow Orwell knew of my concerns, for in my horoscope the next day, I deciphered these words:
LOVING ACTIONS MUST START
WITH LOVING THOUGHTS.
When I did my homework in his room that night, I told Orwell that even though I hadn't figured out exactly what was going on, I was glad that I was the one who'd found him and not someone else.
Orwell replied in the morning with this:
THE GREATEST GIFT WE GIVE IS OURSELVES.
This news made me feel closer to Orwell than ever. That's when I came up with an idea for what to do for him before his operation.
Announcing myself that night with our secret
tap-tap-tap-ta-tap,
I entered Orwell's room carrying a hard black case that when stood on its end came all the way up to my chin. The instrument inside, made of polished brass and shiny chrome, was in three pieces, each nestled in a fitted velvet valley.
I removed the short mouthpiece, the long slide section, and the bell section, whose flashy end was as big as a dinner plate. As the rabbit watched me from the tub, I put the pieces together and stood before him bearing the grand and unmistakable shape of the most-prized instrument of every band.
"
Ta-da!
" I said to Orwell, presenting my trombone.
He responded,
Tap-tap-tap-ta-tap!
Carefully, lest the strange new sound disturb his sensitive rabbit ears, I put my lips together and pushed out a single note, a brief musical belch, to introduce the trombone's throaty tone. As I had hoped, his eyes expressed not fear, but interest.
The only piece I knew by heart was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." It seemed appropriate since I considered naming him Star so many weeks before. At any rate, it would have to do.
Without further delay, I began the concert for Orwell.
Some people think that you just blow on a trombone and music comes out the other end. Not so.
The music must first be created by your lips. The trombone amplifies and modifies the sound, just as a hammer amplifies and directs the blows your arm delivers. It is truly all in the lips.
When I press my lips tightly together and blow with a sort of buzzing sound as hard as I can, the sound that I produce is high in pitch. When I relax my lips just slightly, and reduce the effort with which I blow, the sound is lower. I use the slide on the trombone to form each sound into just the note I want.
There are seven slide positions on the trombone. My arms are only able to reach numbers one through six, with the sixth position, where my arm is stretched as far as it can go, producing the lowest notes I can command.
There are a couple of places in "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" requiring the sixth position, so I had to slow down when I came to those notes, but except for this understandable and, I think, minor flaw, I played the tune quite wellâso well, in fact, that I performed it that night for Orwell many times.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
The slide-controlled sound of fine-tuned brass plumbing bounced against the hard ceramic backboard of Orwell's tub and tile.
How I wonder what you are.
Orwell speaks
A false spring had accidentally summoned the crocuses. The eager little showoffs popped up weeks ahead of schedule. In the distance, above the rumble of cars and trucks thundering down the expressway, rose the twittering of hundreds of birds
"For most of what ails us," he announced with great authority in his clear, deep voice, "the best medicine is a dose of love. And if that doesn't work, double the dose!"
I didn't know what else I could do to show my love for Orwell. Already, he had more food than he could eat. His hideout was as nice a place as any rabbit could reasonably expect. Taking him outside again didn't seem like such a good idea. With my grandmother's help, he was going to have a chance at walking, although that chance could turn out to be like your chances for winning the lottery. What could I do that I wasn't already doing?
Somehow Orwell knew of my concerns, for in my horoscope the next day, I deciphered these words:
LOVING ACTIONS MUST START
WITH LOVING THOUGHTS.
When I did my homework in his room that night, I told Orwell that even though I hadn't figured out exactly what was going on, I was glad that I was the one who'd found him and not someone else.
Orwell replied in the morning with this:
THE GREATEST GIFT WE GIVE IS OURSELVES.
This news made me feel closer to Orwell than ever. That's when I came up with an idea for what to do for him before his operation.
Announcing myself that night with our secret
tap-tap-tap-ta-tap,
I entered Orwell's room carrying a hard black case that when stood on its end came all the way up to my chin. The instrument inside, made of polished brass and shiny chrome, was in three pieces, each nestled in a fitted velvet valley.
I removed the short mouthpiece, the long slide section, and the bell section, whose flashy end was as big as a dinner plate. As the rabbit watched me from the tub, I put the pieces together and stood before him bearing the grand and unmistakable shape of the most-prized instrument of every band.
"
Ta-da!
" I said to Orwell, presenting my trombone.
He responded,
Tap-tap-tap-ta-tap!
Carefully, lest the strange new sound disturb his sensitive rabbit ears, I put my lips together and pushed out a single note, a brief musical belch, to introduce the trombone's throaty tone. As I had hoped, his eyes expressed not fear, but interest.
The only piece I knew by heart was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." It seemed appropriate since I considered naming him Star so many weeks before. At any rate, it would have to do.
Without further delay, I began the concert for Orwell.
Some people think that you just blow on a trombone and music comes out the other end. Not so.
The music must first be created by your lips. The trombone amplifies and modifies the sound, just as a hammer amplifies and directs the blows your arm delivers. It is truly all in the lips.
When I press my lips tightly together and blow with a sort of buzzing sound as hard as I can, the sound that I produce is high in pitch. When I relax my lips just slightly, and reduce the effort with which I blow, the sound is lower. I use the slide on the trombone to form each sound into just the note I want.
There are seven slide positions on the trombone. My arms are only able to reach numbers one through six, with the sixth position, where my arm is stretched as far as it can go, producing the lowest notes I can command.
There are a couple of places in "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" requiring the sixth position, so I had to slow down when I came to those notes, but except for this understandable and, I think, minor flaw, I played the tune quite wellâso well, in fact, that I performed it that night for Orwell many times.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
The slide-controlled sound of fine-tuned brass plumbing bounced against the hard ceramic backboard of Orwell's tub and tile.
How I wonder what you are.
Orwell speaks
A false spring had accidentally summoned the crocuses. The eager little showoffs popped up weeks ahead of schedule. In the distance, above the rumble of cars and trucks thundering down the expressway, rose the twittering of hundreds of birds
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