The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1881-06-03

heart to brood there. For the season
was over, and old violoncello had struck
his last chord ut the hall. U
"You see, Dobbs," the leader of the
orchestra had said, "now that the full
seasons over, it's unreasonable to ex-
pect the management to keep up such q
band, 30, much as it goes against me to
say it. we must part"
"Quite right" had chimed in the
manager with q ferocious mustache.
Establishment expenses must be- cut
down, my man; everybody can't stop on
so there you are Might as we'll ask me
to keep extra bandsmen out of my own
salary !"
So the old violoncello struck his last
chord, ana went with a leaden heart.
Good-hearted Tom Horribly comfortel
him with hopes of that next engage
ment. But who would have him
poor, old, WORKOUT, deaf as he was ?
Nobody, he said. And his heart sank
like lump of cold lead rs he thought
OF that answer.
The pulpy slush changed to white,
untrodden snow upon the path the
streets were quieter and darker. Old
violoncello reached his humble lodging,
admitted himself by his latch-key,
climbed the three flights of rickety
stairs. In the tiny garnet at the top of
them was fireless CRATE, q square white
he'd. q table. chair and q window-one
broken pane OF which was stopped with
brown paper. As he lighted his two
inches of lean candle and showed these,
the old man sat down upon the chair
and bent his gray head upon the table.
No tear was in his eyes when he lifted
them. He drew his violoncello closer to
him he Rugged it as he might favor
ite child; then he bent his head once
more upon the little table, and his bow
slipped to the floor from the numbel
fingers which clasped it.
Lower and lower burned the candle,
while outside, upon the bars of the
window-panes, white snow gathered
higher and higher as the flakes kept
falling.
When the blanched face was again up
turned the eyes were moistened.
$50 we've come to it at last, have we,
old fiddle!" the old man moaned in
apostrophe of his beloved violoncello,
as he stopped to pick up the bow. "We're
old now, uogu OF us we're no use now
You're patched and cracked and your
masters deaf; they don't want a pair
like us nowadays. We're ready almost
for our last engagement. Yes, old fid-
die you've been good servant to your
old master, and you could do some
thing, too, in your day but not much
long6r-not very much longer. We're
old now they can do without u.s."
A tear dropped upon the finger-board,
and the old man wiped 1T carefully of
with his coat-sleeve.
Eyes, old friend" he continued, gaz-
ing affectionately Oh his battered COM
panion of wood and strings, "we've
been friends for long, but we're coming
to our last engagement.
While the snow-hakes fell thicker and
thicker against the window, softly and
noiselessly, the old man drew his bow
across the strings of the violoncello in
way, bending down his
head to the instrument just rs he always
did. Though his ears were deaf to
aught else, they never failed to drink in
the tones which sprung from those vi
brating cords. Slowly, weirdly, pathet-
ically the music rose and fell in gentle
nipples around the room, SO hushed and
low that it awakened no echoes in the
silent house. Only in that poor cham
Der would it wander only around that
poor old couple, instrument and player,
would its sweet melody float AS he
played, the old mans eyes gently closed,
and from his face the lines Of settled de-
spair gradually cleared away, till only
happy smile was left beaming around
The players thoughts were
far away; to him the cold room and
snowy window were become as naught
Back in the little garden of fifty years
ago, in the arbor scented by the pinks
and roses, with the dark velvet pansies
the little plot Mt his feet, he
was listening again to that same old
tune as he heard it first, when the wife,
long dead, sang the words, and he
played the air upon that well-remem-
bered violin. He could hear her voice ;
he could smell rhe roses perfume. Sure
ly it was that same violin he was playing
now From his closed eyes, down the
white cheeks, tears dropped warm and
asst upon the strings of the violoncello.
lie needed them not his thoughts were
.ar away.
So the tune rose and fell, and the snow
gathered thicker and thicker on the win
low panes, till the candle on the little
table fickered out. Yet the arm in the
rusty sleeve did not weary in its slow,
regular motion; the cold fingers still
pressed the strings; the player did not
awake to the darkness of the room.
We're old now," he murmured:
they don't want us any longer"
His eyes were still shut, but the tune
Taxed slower and slower and slower, till
t died altogether. The bow slipped
rom the old mans fingers: the gray
lead sank upon the table; the violon-
,ello rested soundless against the breast
If the rusty black coat. r
When the morning came and bright
Jun rays struggled through the snow
blocked window panes, they sbone upon
/ tiny table, square white bed, fire.
ess CRATE, patched and dingy old VIC
oncello. But the bow had fallen upon
he floor, and the players nerveless fin
gers hung white ana stiiiened upon the
strings.
Old Violoncelio had gone to his last