The Red Cloud chief., 1878-02-21
SAVED BY A SONG.

1t was Christmas Eve. A cold, old
fashioned Christmas. with now lying
thick on the ground and still
falling heavily, with a touch of
fog in the air. 1t was past 10 O'Clock,
and the streets and lanes of the great
city were all but deserted. Merchant
and broker, clerk and warehouscmen,
and the rest of the busy crowd who had
thronged those streets by day had one
by one drifted away TO their homes,
and the lofty warehouse doomed black
and f%orbidding over the silent thorough
fares. Here and there the CLEAN of a
solitary window struggled Intellectual
ly with the outer darkness, and served
but to bring into stronger relief the gen
eral gloom and solitude.
And nowhere was the darkness deep
or or the sense of desolation more pro-
found than i'm ST. Winifred's court. st.
Winifred's is one of those queer little
ALLEYS which intersect the heart Of east
ern London, and consists, with one ex-
ception, of houses let out as Offices, and
utterly deserted at night. The court is
bounded on one side by st. Winifred's
Church, while in one corner stands a
quaint old house occupying a nearly
triangular piece of ground and form
/. ing the exception we have referred to,
having been for many years the resi-
gS6ofsaS 9e6ee-. NiRifre6s -sEsgaHist,r Mi
enaei rfay.
The only sign of life, on this Christ
mas Eve, in st. Winifred's court, was a
faint CLEAN of freight proceeding
from one of the windows of the quaint
thrce-cornercd house in which Michael
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 solace being the rare old organ,
the friend and companion of his lonely
hours. The loss of his wife and daugh-
ter had left him without kith or kin.
His father and mother had died in his
early youth, an only brother, a gifted
but maynard youth, had run away
10 sea, and had there found a watery
grave. Being thus left alone in the
world, Michael Trays love for music,
which had always been the most mark
ed feature of his character, had become
intensified into an absolute passion.
Evening after evening, when darkness
had settled on the city, and none could
complain that his music interfered with
business or distracted the attention from
the noble clink Of gold, he was accus-
toned to creep quietly into the church
and there ''talk to HIMSELF" as he
called it, at the old organ, which an
swered him back again with a tender
sympathy and power of consolation
which no mere human listener could
ever have afforded. The organ of st.
Winifred's was of comparatively small
size and made but scanty show of pipes
or pedals but the blackened case and
yellow much-wOrn keys had been fash
Toned by the brain and skilful fingers
of Father Smith" himself, and never
had the renowned old Organ-builder
turned ont a more skilful 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 acquired
an limos magical power i'm bringing
ont lis 1endereSt tones M nnblest bar-
monies.
Hear him this Christmas Eve, as he
sits before the adjacent keyboard, the
feeble candle dimly glimmering over
the well-worn page before him flicker
inc weirdly over the ancient carving,
and calling into mOmentary life the eff
tigies of mitred abbot and mailed cru
sader. A feeble old man, whose sands
of life have all but run out ; a 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 la
Dor i'm those aforementioned pages.
Under the touch of Michael Trays deft |
fingers the ancient organ becomes in |
stinct with life and harmony. 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
strain of consOlation-from the dirge
for the loved and lost, to the paan of
the jubilant victOr-each shade of hui
man passion, each tender message of
divine encouragement, take form and
cOlo in succession. under the magic
of that old mans touch. Thus, some
times borrowing the song of other sing
ers. sometimes wandering into quaint
Eolian harmonies, the spontaneous
overflow of his own rare genius, Mi
chael Fray sat and made music. charm
ing his sorrows 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 midnight and recalled him to reality
again. With two or three wailing |
minor chords he brought his weird i'm
provision to an end.
Dear me-" he said. with a heavy
sigh, Christmas again! Christmas
again! How many times, l 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-alI taken! and here
am I-Old, sad, and friendless-and
yet l live on, live 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 produced al an
Gent page of manuscript, worn almost
to fragments, but pasted for preserva-
ton on a piece of paper of a late date.
yes, here it is, poor Christmas song.
What a sweet voice he had, dear boy
If he had only ived-but there! I'm
murmuring again. Gods will be
doner'
Heplaced the music on the desk before
him. and after amoment's pause, began,
in tender, fute-like tones, to play the