The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1881-06-10

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 char
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
tie child; then he bent his head once
more upon the little table, and his bow
slipped to the floor from the numbed
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 fakes 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 fddlel" the old man moaned In
apostrophe of his beloved violoncello,
as he stopped topick up the bow. "We're
old now, both of us we're no use now
You're patched and cracked and your
masters deaf; they don't want pair
like us nowadays. We're ready almost
for our last engagement. Yes, old fid-
die you've been a good servant to your
old master, and you could do some
thing, too, in your day; but not much
longer-not very much longer. We're
old now they can do without us"
A tear dropped upon the fnger-board,
and the old man wiped it carefully Oh
with his coat-sleeve.
Yes, old friend" he continued, gaz-
ing affectionately on his battered COM
psnion Of wood and strings, "we've
been friends for long, but we're coming
to our last engagement" "
While the snow-fakes fell thicker and
thicker against the window, softly and
noiselessly, the old man drew his bow
across the strings of the violoncello in a
haf-unconscious way, bending down his
head to the instrument just as 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
ripples around the room, SO hushed and
low that it awakened noechoes 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 a
happy smile was left beaming around
wrinkles. 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
clustering the little plot at 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 the 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
fast upon the strings of the violoncello.
He needed them not his thoughts were
far away.
So the tune rose and fell, and the snow
gathered thicker and thicker on the win
dow panes, till the candle on the little
table fickered out. Yet the arm in the
rusty sleeve did not weary in it's 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
waxed slower and slower and slower, till
it died altogether. The bow slipped
from the old mans fingers; the gray
head sank upon the table; the violon-
cello rested soundless against the breast
of the rusty black coat x
When the morning came and bright
sun rays struggled through the snow
blocked window panes, they shone upon
tiny table, a square white bed, fire.
less CRATE, patched and dingy old vio-
loncello. But the bow had fallen upon
the floor, and the players nerveless fin
gers hung white and stiffened upon the
strings.
Old Violoncello had gone to his last
engagement.