The weekly herald. [volume] (Cleveland, Tenn.) 1876-1888, 1881-11-04
HIS NEXT ENGAGEMENT.

The glories of the entertainment
have faded, down goes gas, out scram-
BILE audience. II is the last night of the
season, and the band, solrowfully,
gloomily every one, from the big drum
down to the piccolo, are playing the
National Anthem over said seasons
grave to give it decent burial. Even
the first fijdle feels out of sorts. The
bassoon has tear drop trembling on
his left eyelash, and lets it hang there,
unsupicious of the fact that all the
while it glistens visibly in tiny ray
from the foot light. As for the violon-
cello next him, that cliff browed, set.
faced, hoary.leaded veteran of score
or two of pantomines, surely this par
tlcular pantomine's death grieves him
but little. Why should it-whilst he
can twine his bony left arm around
that old violoncello's neck as if it lived
and loved him wien he can bend his
gray head to its strings and hear the
sweet pathos Of their tones; when he
can pass his long, skinny musicians
fingers fondly over them to draw forth
rich, soothing, swelling, falling, beauti-
full melody? Why should there be a
quavering lip and trembling eyelash
when the last chord comesP
The chord is struck and over. Out
of the orchestra, aud already on his way
home, is the first violin, the cornet
has brought up in the rear with a ca.
denza morando; the big drum has
closed his last roll the second violin
has packed up his fiddle-case bassoon
and violoncello remain alone with the
dying light in the hall.
'tDick !" said the bassoon, quitely.
Poor old white-faced violonceIlo
never needed. The left arm in its rusty
sleevestill clasped the Instruments neck
in that loving way the old gray head
bent down over the strings, with the
eyes closed.
"Poor old chapl" observed the bas-
soon, pityingly, as he turned up his
coat-collar and tucked his instrument
case under his arm. "Blowed if he
amt playing nowp
"Dick Dick r. he repeated, tapping
the old violoncello good naturedly on
the shoulder. The old man opened
his eyes and awoke to the silence.
Halo, Tom Hornby What--all
gomez thought "--he looked around
him in disappointed inquiry, and he
spoke in tone Of sadness / thought
he repeated that second strain. Well,
well How deaf I'm getting. to be
sure| The rusty black coat heaved
with sigh as its wearer rose and shut
his music.
"All gone but you, Tom ?" he said,
sorrowfully. "Well, / won't deny l
thought they might ha' wished me
Goodnight or 'Good-by,' or some
thing of the sort, for the last night !;
but won't grumble. An old fellow
who's as deaf as post and has nobody
to mind him ain't no place in an or
chestra. He'd better get out OF the
road as quick as he can, and make no
fuss about it, Friends amt in his
line"
"Now come, Dick, old man." ex.
postulated the bassoon, "don't 90 for
to speak like that. You knows there's
one chap as is sorry for you--dash my
hide il he amt Yes, says I, Dick /;
count me as your friend whenever you
like. There's bed for you, aud tho
same fare as has myself, whenever
you like to claim EN-; and il we can't find
you another sit somewheres directly,
it's pity. Blow mo, it's pity !"
"Tom Hornby, you're good-Eearted
fellow" returned the violoncello, CRATE
fully, as his stolid face relaxed a little
before the bassoon's genial smile. "a
useless, old, worn.cut blessing like
mine amt much to give Anybody" he
continued, "but such as it is, Tom, take
it 10 your kindness and may you
never have such black world before
You as I've got now"
They shook hands, the bassoon
stepped through The little marrow door