He ran to the room with the portraits, opened the piano, sat down, and spread his hands over the keyboard. He began to play something of his own making, a real and spontaneous inspiration, a polka, a rambunctious polka, as the papers would say. The composer did not hold back: his fingers plucked the notes from the air, entwining them, shaping them; you could say his muse was simultaneously composing and dancing. Pestana forgot all about his lessons, his servant waiting for him with the cane and the umbrella, forgot even the portraits hanging gravely on the wall. He simply composed, at the keyboard or on paper, with none of the previous evening’s vain efforts, no frustration, asking nothing of heaven or of Mozart’s impassive eyes. No weariness at all. Life, wit, and novelty gushed from his soul like an unquenchable stream.

Soon the polka was finished. He made a few minor changes when he returned for dinner, but already he was humming the tune as he walked down the street. He liked it; the blood of his father and his musical vocation flowed through this new and original composition. Two days later, he took it to the publisher of his other polkas, of which there were already over thirty. The editor thought it delightful.

“It will be a huge success.”

The matter of a title arose. When Pestana composed his first polka, in 1871, he had wanted to give it a poetical title; his choice was “Drops of Sunshine.” The publisher shook his head and told him that titles must themselves be destined for popular tastes, either by allusion to some current event or some catchy expression. He suggested two: “The Law of September 28,” or “Fine Words Butter No Parsnips.”

“But what does ‘Fine Words Butter No Parsnips’ mean?” asked the composer.

“Oh, it means nothing at all, but soon enough it’ll be all the rage.”

Still new to the ways of the world, Pestana refused both titles and kept his polka, but it was not long before he composed another, and the itch of publicity led him to have both of them published, with whatever titles the publisher considered most attractive or appropriate. And thus the pattern was set.

Now, when the composer delivered his brand-new polka and they came to discussing the title, the publisher remembered that, for quite some time, he had been keeping one aside for the next tune Pestana brought him. It was intriguing and expansive, yet jaunty: “Hey Missus, Hang On to Your Hamper.”

“And I’ve already thought up another good one for next time,” he added.