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

49,
son, and the band, sorrowfully, gloomily
every one, from the big drum down to
the piccolo, are playing the national an
them over said seasons grave to give it
decent burial. Even the first fiddle feels
out of sorts. The bassoon has tear.
drop trembling on his left eyelash, and
let's it hang there, unconscious of the
fact that all the while it glistens visibly
in tiny ray from the footlight. As for
the violoncello next him, that cliff
browed, set-faced, hoary-headed old vet
eran of score or two of pantomimes,
surely this particular pantomime's death
grieves him but little. Why should it
while he can Irvine his bony left arm
around that old violoncello's neck as if
it lived and loved him; when he can
bend his gray head to its strings and
hear the sweet pathos of their tones;
when he can pass his long, skinny must
clans fingers fondly over them to draw
forth rich, soothing, swelling, falling,
beautiful melody Why should there
be quavering lip and trembling eye
lash when the last chord comes?
The chord is struck and over. Out of
the orchestra, and already on his way
home, is the first violin; the cornet has
brought up the rear with cadenza mo-
r0rado; the big drum has closed his last
roll; the second violin has packed up his
fiddle-case; bassoon and violoncello re-
main alone with the dying lights in the
hall.
Dick r said the bassoon, quietly.
Il I e. i IL
needed The left arm in its rusty sleeve
still clasped the Instruments neck in
that loving way the old gray head bent
down over the strings, with the eyes
closed.
"Poor old chap r observed the bas-
soon, pittyingly, as he turned up his
coat-collar and tucked his instrument
case under his arm. "Blowed if he
amt playin now p
Dick-Dick |" he repeated, tapping
the old violoncello good-naturedly on the
shoulder, This old man opened his eyes
and awoke to the silence.
"Hallo, Tom Horribly What-all
gone? Though" he lookedaroundhim
in disappointed inquiry, and spoke in a
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 I
thought they might ha' wished me
goodnight, or good-by, or something
of the sort, for the last night but /
won't grumble. An old fellow who's as
deaf as a post and has nobody to mind
him amt no place in an orchestra. 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 go for
to speak like that. You knows there's
one chap as is sorry for you--dash my
hide if he amt Yes, says I, Dick ;
count me as your friend whenever you
like. There's bed for you, and the
same fare as has myself, whenever
you like to claim 'em and, if we can't
find you another sit somewheres
directly, it's a pity. Blow me, it's a
pity r. |" ~
fellow, returned the violoncello, CRATE
fully, as his stolid face relaxed little
before the bassoon's genial smile. "A
useless, old, worn-out blessing like mine
amt much to give any body" he con-
tinued, "but such as it is, Tom, take it
for 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
beneath the stage, and his companion,
bearing his unwieldy violoncello, ex.
tinguished the last gas-iet as he followed
him.
Goodnight, Dick; and don't be
down-hearted, old man. Your next en-
gagement III make amends"
Goodnight, Tom Horribly; God
bless you"
Again they shook hands; then bas-
soon whistled off into the hurrying
crowd at the stage-door, and violoncello
turned to face the wind the other way.
Out into the bleak street, where tiny
yellow flashlights Of lamps cast a melan-
choly glimmer or two upon crowds Of
htiIlLu laGSS, bOLlS lAb thuu TOuuu,
some red and well-favored, some blue
and ill-favored, all hurrying along
through the little snow-dots which the
wind blew about.
Old violoncello buttoned his rusty
coat close, and turned up the collar as
If the wind might find that an obstacle
In its attacks upon his scraggy old
throat, while he Rugged that dingy big
fiddle of his tight against his body, and,
settling his eyes straight before him,
dragged his trembling knees in the di-
rection they pointed. Up one street and
down another; along a wide, white
road, lined with tall white mansions
down narrow, wriggling, dark alley,
lined with rickety lodging houses. On
he trudged through the gray, pulpy
mud of trampled snow.
On and on to that dreary blank of flu.
ture which lay before him, the old lack
luster eyes fixed in that straightforward
look Of despair, the cold loneliness
steadily settling down upon his aged
heart to brood there. For the season
was over, and old violoncello had struck
his last chord at the hall.
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 a
band, so, much as it goes against me to
say it, we must part.
"Quite right" had chimed in the
manager with ferocious mustache.
Establishment expenses must be cut
down, my man; everybody can't stop on
SO there you are Might as well ask me
to keep extra bandsmen out of my own
salary !"
So the old violoncello struck his last
chord, and went with leaden heart.
Good-hearted Tom Horribly comforted
him with hopes of that next engage
ment. But who would have him
poor, old, worn-out, deaf as he was I?
Nobody, he said. And his heart sank
like lump of cold lead as 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 garrett at the top Of
them was fireless CRATE, square white
bed, table, a chair and 'Findow--ons