The Cincinnati daily star. [volume] ([Cincinnati, Ohio]) 1875-1880, 1879-03-29

'tCiristmas again! Christmas again! How
many times wonder will this be the last
and yet Christmas comes again and finds Ia
here still, all alone. First poor Dick; and
then my darling Alice and little Nell-all
gone! Young and bril- int and mery-all
taken! And here am I--old and friendless
and yet live on. Well, suppose God
knows best!"
While thus thinking aloud, the old man
was apparently searching for something
among his'music books, and now produced
an ancient page of manuscript, worn al
most to fragments, but pasted for preserva-
ton on piece of paper of later date.
"Yes, hereit is-poor Dicks Christmas
songl What sweet voice he had, dear
boy If he had only liyed-but there |!
I'm murmuring again. Gods will be
done!"
He placed the music en- the desk before
him, and, after moments pause, began in
tender, fute-ike tones to play the melody,
at the same time crooning the words in o
feeble voice. He played one verse of the
song, then stopped and drew his sleeve
across his eyes. go -..
The sense of his desolstion appeared to
come anew upon him; he seemed to shrink
down, doubly old, doubly feeble, doubly
forsaken-when lol marvel Suddenly
from the lonely street, in that chill mid
night came the sound Of violin, and o
sweet voice singing the self-same tender
air-the song written by his dead and goAe
brother forty years before.
The effect on Michael Fray was electrical.
For moment he staggered but caught at
the keyboard board before him and held it
with q convulsive grasp. .rr
Gam I dreaming, or are my senses leay-
ing me? Poor Dicks Christmas carol; and
I could almost swear the voice is my own
Nellies. Can this be death at last, and are
the angels welcoming me home with the
song love 80 dearly? No, surely; either
I am going, or that Is real, living voice
But whose-whose Heaven help me to
find out !" -.-...
And with his whole frame quiverirg with
excitement-without pausing even to close
the organ or to extingush his Pickering
candle, the old man groped his way down
the narrow stair which led to the street.
and, hurriedly closing the door. behind him,
stepped into the snowy night.
For some hours before Michael Fray was
startled as we have related, by the niysteri-
GUS echo of his brothers. song, an old man
and young girl had been making their
way cityward from the southeastern side of
London.
Botn walked wearily, as though they
had tramped for 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 cheerfulness 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 old man, who carried q violin, would
strike up some old ballad tune with vigOr
and power of execution which even his
frost-nipped fingers and cold, weary limbs
could not wholly destroy; while the girl,
with a sweet, though very sad voice, accom-
panied him with appropriate words. But
their attempts were miserably unproduc-
tive. In such bitter weather few who could
help it would stay away from their warm
fresides; and those whom stern necessity
kept out of doors seemed only bent on dis
patching their several tasks, andto have no
time or thought to expend on a couple
of wandering tramps singing by the road
side.
Still they toled on, every now and then
making stop at some likely corner, only
too often ordered to "move on" by some
stern policeman. AS they drew nearer TO
the city and the hours grew LATER the pass
ers-by grew fewer and farther between, and
the poor wanderers felt that it was idle
even to seek for charity in those deserted
streets. At length the old man stopped and
groaned aloud.
''what Is 1t, grandfather dear +? Don't
give up now when we have come 80 far.
Lean on me-do; I'm hardly tired at all,
and dare say we shall do better to-mor-
row." .. ..... 90. ...
Tomorrow I" said the old man, bitter
ly Tomorrow it will be too late. Idon't
mind hunger and don't mind cold, but the
shame of it, the disgrace after struggling
against it all these years--to come to the
workhouse at last! II isnt, for yRyself l
mind-bcggars mustn't be choosers; and,
I dare say better men than I have slept in
casual ward; but you my tender little