Daily globe., 1878-02-24

sorrow to sweetest stream Of consolation
from the dirge for the loved and lost,
to the paan Of the jubilant victor-each
shade Of human passion, each tender mes
sage Of divine encouragement, take form
and color in succession, under the magic
of that Old mans touch. Thus, sometim-
es borrowing the song of others singers,
sometimes wandering in to quaint Eelian
harmonies, the spontaneous overflow Of
his own rare genius, Michael Fray sat
and made music, charming his sorrows
to temporary sleep.
Time crept on, but the payer needed
it not, till the heavy bell tower above his
head doomed forth the hour of midnight
and recalled him to reality again. With
two or three wailing minor chords he
brought his weird improvisation to an
end.
sDear, me,'' he said with heavy sigh,
"Christmas again. Christmas again! How
many times, I wonder Well, this will
be the last; and yet Christmas comes
again, and finds me here still, all alone.
Dear, dear! First poor Dick, and then
my darling Alice and little Nell-all
gone! Young and bright and merry
all taken! And here am I-old, sad and
fricndlcss- and yet 1 live on, live on
Well, I suppose God knows best!" While
thus thinking aloud, the old man was
apparently searching for something
among his music books, and now pro
duced an ancient page of manuscript,
worn almost to fragments, but pasted
for preservation, on piece of paper OF
later date. eyes, here it is, poor Dicks
Christmas song. What sweet voice he
had, dear boy! If he had only lived, =
but there! I'm murmuring again. Gods
will be done!'
He placed the music on the desk before
him, and, after moments pause, began
in tender flute like tones, to play the
melody, at the same time grooming the
words in feeble voice. He played one
verse Of the song, then stopped and drew
his sleeve across his eyes. The sense of
his desolation appeared to come anew up
on him ;he seemed to shrink down, ,doubly
ly old, doubly feeble, doubly forsaken-
when, 10 a marvel! Suddenly from that
lonely street without, in that chill mid
night, came the sound of a violin, and a
sweet young voice singing the selfsame
tender air-the song written by his dead
and gone brother forty years before.
The effect on Michael Fray was cleo
trical. For moment he staggered, but
caught at the keyboard before him and
held it with convulsive grasp.
''Am dreaming? or are my senses
leaving me? Poor Dicks Christmas car
oil /; and I could almost swear the voice is
my own lost Nellie's Can this be death
at last? And are the angels welcoming
me home with the song love so dearly!
| No, surely either I am going mad, OF
that is real living voice But whose
whose! Heaven help me to find out!!' And
with his whole frame quiveridg with ex-
citcment-witbout pausing even to close
the organ, or to eztinguish his candle
the old man grouped his way down the
narrow winding stairs which led to the
street, and hurriedly closing the door be-
hind him, stepped forth bareheaded into
the snowy night.
For some hours before Michael Fray
was startled as we have related, by the
mysterious echo of his brothers song, an
old man and a young girl had been max
ing their way city-wards from the south
eastern side of London. Both walked
wearily as though they had walked a long
| distance; and once or twice the young
girl wiped away tear, though she strove
hard to hide it from her companion and
forced herself to speak with acheerfulness
in strange contrast to her sunken checks
and footsore gait. Every now and then,
in passing through the more frequented
streets, they would pause; and the man,
who carried violin, would strike up an
old ballad tune with vigor and power
of execution which even his frost-nipped
fingers and weary limbs could not wholly
destroy; while the girl with sweet al
though very sad voice, accompanied him
with the appropriate words.
But their attempts were miserably un-
productive. In such bitter weather: few
who could help it would stay away from
their warm tiresides; and those whom
stern necessity kept out of doors seemed
only bent On dispatching their several
tasks, and to have no time or thought to
expend on a couple of wandering tramps
singing by the roadside. Still they toiled
on, every now and then making a fresh
"pitch" at some likely corner, only too
often ordered to 'move on'' by stern
policeman. AS they drew nearer to the
city and the hour grew later, the passers-
by became fewer and farther between,
and the poor wanderers felt that it was
idle even to seek for charity in those de-
serted, silent streets. Atlast the old man
stopped and groaned aloud.
'What is it, grandfather, dear? Don't
give in now, when we have come so far.
Lean on me-do; am hardly tired at all; +;
and l daresay we shall do better to. NOR
row."
Tomorrow !" said the old man, bit
terly; "to-morrow it will be to late. I
don't mind hunger, and l don't mind
cold; but the shame of it, the disgrace
after having struggled against it all these
yearsto come to the workhouse at last!
1t isn't for myself mind, beggars mustn't
be choosers: and, daresay, better men
than have slept in casual ward; but
you, my tender little Lily. The thought
breaks my heart! it kills me-" And
the old man sobbed abound.
g Dear grandfather, you are always
thinking Of me, and never Of yourself
What does it matter after all? it's only
the name of the thing. I'm sure I don't
mind it one bit The shudder Of horror