Central Park Band Concert

“A Wednesday concert at the Park is considered by many even more interesting than the Saturday one, as music on the water, breathed through over a dozen brass tubes, has peculiar charms for the hearers. So the swans thought, at least, as they followed Mr. Dodworth’s boat, evidently endeavoring to pick up some melody suitable for a dying song, and thereby to keep up the reputation of their species in that respect. The “March of the Amazons” was too Black Crookish; the selection from Martha no better; but after the exquisite little melody, “Beautiful Dreamer,” one of them retired to the shadow of the island, probably to rehearse it for the eventful occasion when he should paddle for the last time. The scene was singularly picturesque. The sun darted a flood of light on the placid waters, across which glided the tiny craft, each filled with chignons, hats, feathers, cloaks, dusters, empress trails, parasols, jet and amber beads, and the necessary items that accompany these items and dwell within them. Now a misanthropic swan would peck at a dainty finger held out in friendship, causing the owner of the dainty finger to utter a dainty little scream and start so as to nearly upset the boat. Thereupon several dainty little screams would chime in and then the moustached portion of the crew would restore order.  Through the dense foliage on the banks peeped empress chip and stovepipe hats, and the trees nodded lazily as if lulled by the sweet strains of the cornet band. On the terrace beneath the Venetian like flags, that hung motionless over the waters, stood crowds of listeners, forming a checkered group of white muslin, grenadine, organdie, silk, broadcloth and cassimere. The background was the little arrangement beneath the upper terrace, where at every table the more sensible portion of the visitors combined business with pleasure, and attended to sundry plates filled with sundry white heaps and sundry glasses with straws in them, as well as the music. As some bright-eyed belle passes by with more marabout feathers on her head and shoulders than would supply a[n] aviary of chattering birds, the straw drops from the lips of one of [t]he ladies at the nearest table and the exclamation “Did you ever?” follows. Presently the marabout belle turns around and the lady with the straw starts up. “My dearest friend, I’m so glad to see you.” Sequel to the ensuing dialogue when their backs are turned:--“She thinks herself somebody, but I know—.“ The “March of the Amazons”, suggestive of calcium lights, shining helmets and bare limbs; the “Dream on the Ocean Waltz,” one of the most beautiful that Gung’l ever wrote; a selection from Verdi’s “Nabuco” [sic] (the three children and fiery furnace thrown in), and the “Marksman’s Polka” were the principal selections played by the band. The feathered choristers sung their selections merrily overhead and the sounds of laughter and merry voices from the boats and terrace all rose on the air and formed one volume of harmony such as the gas-lighted concert hall never dreams of.  As the shades grew deeper on the waters, and the sun hid his jolly face behind Eighth avenue and its bordering trees, and the last strains of the band had melted away, groups of sentimental young men and tittering partners perambulated the neighborhood, retelling chapter after chapter of love and sentiment, for which see the latest novel. At length the walks became deserted, and the philharmonic strains of the frogs in the marshes outside the Park were mingled with the trumpet blast of some incensed bumble bee, the tinkle of the street car bells, and the sounds of revelry in some shanty hard by.”