Grant County herald. [volume] (Lancaster, Wis.) 1850-1968, 1878-02-21

his father aud mother had died in hi
early youth; an only brother, gifted
but hayward youth, had in early life
! ran away to see, and there found 4
watery grave Being thus left alone
In the world, Michael Fray's love FOL
music, which had always been the
most marked feature Of his character
had become intensified into an abso.
Lutte passion. Evening after evening,
when darkness had settled on the ci.
ty, and none could complain that his
music interfered with his business, OF
distracted the attention from the no.
bier chink OF gold, he was accustomed
to creep quietly into the church and
there talk to himself, as he called it.
at the old organ which answered him
back with tender sympathy and
power of consolation which no human
listener could ever have afforded. The
organ of St. Winifred's was of com
paritively small size, and made but a
scanty show of pipes or pedals; but
the blackened case and yellow, much.
worn keys had been fashioned by the
cunning brain and skillful fingers OF
sFather Smith himself, and never had
the renowned old organ builder turn
ed out more skillful piece of work
manship. And Michael Fray, by use
OF years and loving tender study, had
got by heart every pipe and stop in
the rare old instrument, and had &C,
CURED an almost magical power in
bringing out its tenderest tones and
noblest harmonies.
Hear him this Christmas eve as he
sets before the ancient keyboard.
one feeble candle dimly glimmering
over the well-worn page before him
Pickering weirdly over the ancient
carving, and calling into momentary
life the efigles OF mitred abbot and
mailed crusader. A feeble old man,
whose sands of life have all but run
out; sadly weak and tremulous 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
feeble sight finds no labor in those
aforementioned pages. Under the
touch of Michael Fray's deft fingers,
the ancient organ becomes instinct
with life and harmony. The grand
old masters lend their noblest strains,
and could they revisit the earth need
ask no better interpreter. From sad
dest wall OF sorrow to sweetest stream
OF consolation-from the dirge for the
loved and lost to the paon of the ju-
bilant victor-each shade of human
passion, each tender message of d.
vine encouragement. take form and
color in succession, under the magic
of that old mans touch. Thus, some-
times borrowing the song of other
singers, sometimes wandering into
quaint Eolian harmonies, the sponta-
neous overflow of his rare genius, Mi
chael Fray sat and made music,
charming his sorrows to temporary
sleep.
Time crept on, but the player heed
ed it not, till the heavy bell tower
above his head doomed forth the hour
of midnight and recalled him to reali-
ty again. With two or three wailing
minor chords he brought his weird
improvisation to an end.
Dear me- he said with a heavy
sigh, christmas again! Christmas
again! How many times, 7 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, bright and merry-all taken!
And here am I-old, sad and friend
less--and yet live on and on! Well.
l 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. Yes, here it is, poor
Dicks Christmas song. What a
sweet voice he had, dear boy If he
had only lived-but there! Pm MUIR
muring again. Gods will be done ?
He placed the music on the desk
before him and, after a 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, and then stopped and drew his
sleeve across his eyes. The sense Of
his desolation appeared to come anew
upon him !; he seemed to shrink down
doubly old, doubly feeble, doubly for
saken-when, 10 a marvel /! Suddenly
from that lonely street without, in
that chill midnight, came the sound
Of violin, and a sweet young voice
singing the self.same words to the
self-same tender air---the song written
by his dead and gone brother forty
years before.
The effect on Michael Fray was
electrical. For a moment he stag
gered, but caught at the keyboard
before him and held it with a con-
vulsive 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 welcoming me home with the
song / loved so dearly? No, surely;
either am gowing mad, or that is
real living voice. But whose
whose? Heaven help me to find out.
And with his whole frame q1ivering
with excitement-without pausing
even to close the organ or to extin-
guish his candle-the old man group
cd his way down the narrow winding
stairs which led into 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 a young girl had
been making their way from the
southeastern side of London. Both
walked YEARLY as though they had
tramped long distance; and once or