Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • ON A FINE Sunday afternoon in June not too many years ago, the fellow in the picture serenaded his audience of one on Brattle Street in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA.

    A wandering out-of-towner paused to listen, and to remember how his father used to sit of a summer evening out on the porch, playing his accordion "for my own amazement," as he put it.

    The out-of-towner remembered how sometimes he would interrupt his father's playing with a request:

    "Dad, play me The Sharpshooters' March PLEEEEZ?"

    Dad was an accommodating chap, but he knew the years had taken their toll on his fingers.

    "All right," he said. "But no promises." Usually he gave a pretty good account of himself, but it was a chore to get all the way through the tune.

    Anyway, you know the old joke:

    "Welcome to Heaven; here's your harp."

    "Welcome to Hell; here's your accordion."

    Philistines.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.