Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1878-04-13
Gales and Sketehes.
SAVED BY A SOM.

1t was Christmas Eve. A cold, old-fash-
loncd Christmas, with snow lying thick on
the ground and still falling heavily, with
touch OF log in the air. 1t was past ten
O'Clock, and the streets and lanes of the
great city were all but deserted Mer-
chant and broker, clerk and warehouse
man, and the rest of the busy crowd who
had thrOnged those streets bv day, had
one by one driited away to their homes,
and the lofty warehouses loomed black
and forbidding over silent thorOughfares.
Here and there the CLEAN of the solitary
window struggled Intellectually with the
outer darkness, and served but to bring in
to stronger relief the general gloom and
solitude.
And nowhere was the darkness deeper
or the sense of desoation more profound
than in st. Wnifred's court. St. Wini-
fred's is one of those queer little alleys
which lntersect the heart of Eastern Lon
don, and consist, with one exception. of
houses let out as offices and utterly de-
serted at night. The court is bounded on
one side by ST. Wnitred's church while in
one corner stands quaint old house, oc-
cupying nearly triangular piece of
ground and forming the exception referred
TO, having been for many years the resi-
dence OF st. Winfred's organst, Michael
Frav
The only sign of life, on this Christmas
Eve. in St. Winiired's court, was q CLEAN
of illckering freight proceeding from one
OF the windows of the quaint three corn
cred house in which Mchael Fray passed
his solitary existence. Many years before
the period of our story, the same month
had taken from him wife and child, and
since that time Michael Fray had lived
desolate, his only soace being the rare old
organ. the friend and companion OF his
lone hours. The loss of his wife and
daughter had left him without kith or kin.
His father and mother had died in his
early youth. and an only brother, gifted
but wayward youth. had in early life ran
away to sea, and had there found watery
grave. Being thus left alone in the world,
Michael Trays love for music, which had
always been the most marked feature of
his character, had become intensified into
an absolute passion. Evening after eve
| ming, when dark had settled on the city and
none could complain that his music inter-
fered with business or distracted the at
tention from the noble clink of gold, he
was accustomed 10 creep quietly into the
| church and talk to himself" as he called
it, at the old organ, which answered him
back again with tender sympathy and
power of consolation which no mere hu-
man listener could ever have afforded.
The organ of St. Winif. eds was of COM
paratively, small size, and made but scan
" show of pipes or pedals; but the slack
ened cases and yellow much worn keys
had been fashioned by the cunning brain
and skilfu fingers Of Father Smith"
himself, n builder who never turned
out more skillful piece of
workmanship. And Michael Fray, by
years of attentive study, had got by
heart every pipe and stop in the rare old
instrument, and had acquired an almost
magical power in bringing out its tender
est tones and noblest harmonies.
Hear him this Chistmas Eve, as he sits
before the ancient keyboard, one feeble
candle dimlv glimmering over the WE'LL
worn page before him; flickeriug weirdly
over the ancient carving, and calling in-
to momentaly life the eiligies of mitred
| abbot aud mailed crus ider A feeble
old man, whose sands of life have al but
| run OUT; a sadly weak and tremulous old
man. with shaking hands aud dim, uncer-
tain eyes. But when they are placed up
on those yellow KEYS, the shaking hands
shak" no longer; the feeble sight finds no
labor in those welI-remembered pages.
Under the touch OF Michael Trays dett
| fingers, the ancient organ becomes in
| stinct with life and harmony. The grand
old mpsters lend their noblest strains, and,
could they revisit earth. need ask no bet
ter Interpreter From saddest wall of sor-
| row to sweetest strain of consolati on
! from the dlrge OF the loved and lost, 10
-. 1, ;,,I. 4.
| of human passion, each tender message of
divine encouragement, takes form and
color in succession. under the magic of
| that old mans touch. Thus, sometimes
borrowing the song OF other singers, some
times wandering into quaint, Il Dlian har-
| monies, the spontaneous overflow OF his
| own genius. Michael Fray sat and made
music, charming his sorrow to temporary
sleep.
Time crept on, but the player needed it
| not, till the heavy bell in the tower above
| his head doomed forth the hour of mid
night and recalled him to reality again.
With two or three waiIling minor chords
| he brought his weird improvisation to an
| end
Dear me" he said, with heavy sigh,
"Chrstmas again Christmas again
will be the last and vet 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 l-old and triendless--and
yet live on, live on. Well. | suppose
God knows best" While thus thinking
aloud, the old man was apparently search
ing for something among his music books,
and now produced an ancient page OF
manuscript worn almost to fragments. but
pasted for preservation ON piece Of pa
per of a late date. "Yes here it is, poor
Dicks Christmas song. What a sweet
voice he had, dear boy Ii he had only
lived-but there rm 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 meio-
dy, 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 this
desolation appeared to come anew upon
him he seemed to shrink down, doubly