by Hortense Foster

Created on: July 10, 2011   Last Updated: August 05, 2011

The Tuba player was beginning to regret his choice of instruments, as he marched down the parade route. The sun beaming down on his instrument, sweat pouring down his face, tuba hot from too much sun, on ward he marched, keeping up the pace..

 The tuba was getting heaver and heaver with each step he took.  I cannot faultier or faint must keep up as he wiped the sweat from his face.  He marched on keeping step as he blew deep breaths of air into his tuba, the notes came out as planned, with nothing missed.

 As the tuba player approached the two-mile mark with two more to make, he stumbled but did not fail, his great tuba bounced him back.  Gaining his balance onward, they marched, making that two-mile mark with grace and sound.

 In the distance, he could see the end. Crowds gathered on both sides of the street, waiting for the tuba parade to end.  He held his head high, knowing he had did his best. 

 Now the parade is over, he prepares his tuba for the next big gig, patting her on the neck as he put her to rest.  Good night, you will play again.

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