The Vancouver independent. (Vancouver, W.T. [Wash.]) 1875-1910, 1881-11-17

IL
80 there YOU are! Might as we'll ask me
to keep extra bandsmen out of my own
salary!"
So old violoncello struck his last
chord, and went with leaden heart.
Good hearted Tom Hornby ccmforted
him with hopes of that next engagement.
But who would have him-poor, worn.
out, deaf as he was? Nobody. he said.
And his heart sank like lump of cold
lead as he thought of that answer.
The pulpy slush changed to white, un-
trodden snow upon the path; the streets
we're ouieter and darker. Old violon-
cello reached his humble lodging, ad-
mitted himself by his latch key. elm bed
the three flights of rickety stairs. In the
tinv garrett at the top of them was q fire.
less CRATE, a square, white bed, o table,
a chair. and q window-une broken pane
of which was stopped with brown paper.
AS he lighted his two inches of lean can
die and showed these, the old man sat
down upon the chair and bent his gray
head upon the table. No tear was in his
ewes when he lifted them. He drew his
violoncello closer to him; he Rugged il
rs he might o favorite 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,
whilst outside, upon the bars of the
window panes, white snow gathered
HIGHER and higher as the flake, kept fall
ing.
turned the eyes were mOlstened.
$50 we've come to it at last, have we,
old Iiddle?" the old man moaned in apos-
trophe of his loved violoncello, as he
stopped to pick up the bow. Were
old now, both of us; we're no use nowI
You're patched and cracked, and your
masters deaf; they don't want a pair like
us now a-days. We're ready almost for
our last engagement. Yes, old fiddle;
you've been good servant to your old
master, and you could do something, 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 tinger-board,
and the old man wiped it carefully of
with his coat sleeve.
eyes, old friend" he continued,
gazing affectionately on his battered
companion of wood and strings, we've
been friends for long, but we're coming
to our last engagement:
Whilst the snow flakes fell thicker
against the window, softly and noise
lessly. the old man drew his bow across
the strings of the violoncello in half
| 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 sprang from those
vibrating chords. Slowly, weirdly, pa
thetically the music rose and fell in gen.
| tie ripples around the room, so hushed
and low that it awakened no echoes in
tho si1nrt honsa Only in that poor
chamber 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 set
tied despair gradually cleared away, till
only happy smile was left beaming
around wrinkles. The players thoughts
were far away; to him the cold room and
the snowy window were become
as naught. Back in tho little gar
den of fifty years ago, in the ar
Dor scented by the pinks and
roses. with the dark velvet pansies clus-
tering the little plot at his feet; he was
listening again to that same old tune as
he heard it first, when his wife, long
dead, sang the words and he played the
air upon that we'll remembered violin.
He could hear her voice; he could smell
the roses perfume. Surely 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 violincello. 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 paues, till the candle on the little
table flickered and went ont. 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 mnrmured; 'they
don't want US any longer"
His eyes were still shut, bnt the tune
waxed slower and slower, till it died
altogether. The bow slipped from the
old mans fingers; the gray head sank
upon the table; the violoncello rested
soundless against the breast of the rusty
black coat.
When the morning came and bright
sun rays struggled through the snow.