The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1878-02-09

nowned old organ builder turned out g
more skillful piece of workmanship
And Michael Fray, by use of years and
loving tender study, had got by heart
every pipe and stop in the rare old in
strument, and had acquired an almost
magical power in bringing out its ten
derest tones and noblest harmonies.
Hear him this Christmas eve as he sets
before the ancient keyboard, one feeble
candle dimiy glimmering over the we'll
worn page before him; Pickering weird
ly over the ancient carving, and calling
into momentary life the etfigies of mi
tired abbot and mailed crusader A
feeble old man, whose sands of life have
all but run out; sadly week and tremu-
lous old man, with shaking hands and
dim, uncertain eyes. But when they
are placed upon those yellow keys, the
shaking hands shake no longer; the fee
BILE sight finds no labor in those we'll
remembered pages. Under the touch of
Michael Trays deft fingers the ancient
organ becomes instinct withslife and har-
mOny. The grand old masters lend their
noblest strains, and could they revisit
earth, need ask no better Interpreter.
From saddest wall of sorrow to sweetest
stream of cOnsolatiOn-from the dirge
for the loved and lost, to the pecan
OF the lubllant vlctOr-each shade of hui
man passion, each tender message of
divine encouragement, take form and
color in succession, under the magic of
that old mans touch. Thus, sometimes
borrowing the song of other singers,
sometimes wandering into quaint 14Iolian
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 player needed
it not, till the heavy bell tower above
his head doomed forth the hour of mid
night and recalled him to reality again.
With two or three wailing minor chords
he brought his weird improvisation to
an end.
"Dear me-" he said, with heavy sigh,
"Christmas again! Christmas again
How many times, wonder. WE'LL this
will be the last; and yet Christmas comes
again, and finds me here still, all alone.
Dear, dearl First, poor Dick; ana then
my darling Alice and little Nell--all
gonel Young and bright and merry
all taken! And here am I-old, sad and
friendless-and yet | live on, live on
Well, l suppose God knows bestr'
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 a piece of paper of later
date. Yes, 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 donew
He placed the music ON the desk before
him, and, after moments pause, began
in tender fiute-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 desoiation appeared to come anew
upon him; he seemed to shrink down
doubiy old, doubly feeble, doubly for
saken--when, lOl a marvel! Suddenly
from that lonely street without, in that
chill midnight, came the sound of q
violin, and sweet young voice singing
the self-same words to the self-same ten.
der 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 a convulsive grasp.
+" Am | dreaming? or are my senses
leaving me? Poor Dicks Christmas
carol; and | could almost swear the voice
is my own lost Nellie's Can this be
death at last? And are the angels well
coming me home with the song love so
dearly? No, surely; either ! am going
mad, or that is a real living voice! But
whose-whose? Heaven help me to find
out" And with his whole frame quiv-
ering with excitement-without pausing
even to close the organ, or to extinguish
his candle-the old man grouped his way
down the narrow winding stairs which
led to the street, and hurriedly closing
the door behind him, stepped forth bare
headed 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 young girl had been max
ing their way citywards from the south
eastern side of London. Both walked
YEARLY rs though they had tramped
a long distance; and once or twice the
young girl wiped away tear, though
she str0ve hard to hide it from her com
panion and forced herself to speak with
a cheerfutness in strange contrast with
her sunken cheeks and footsore gait
Every now and then, in passing through
the more frequented streets, they would
pause; and the man, who carried a violin,
would strike up some 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 a sweet though very
sad voice, accompanied him with the
appropriate words. But their attempts
were miserably unproductive. In such
bitter weather, few who could help it
would stay away from their warm fire
sides; and those whom stern necessity
kept out of doors seemed only bent on
despatching 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 cerner,- only too
often ordered to move on" by a 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
deserted, silent streets At last the old
man stopped and groaned aloud.
What is it, grandfather, dear? Don't
give in Eow, when we have come so far.
Lean on me-do; | am hardly tired at
all. and | daresay we shall do better to-