Connecticut western news., 1884-03-05
the Storm.
Clark l what is that ?"
BY ADELAIDE E. STEELE.

Clark what is that ?'
 Leyton grasped the arm of his friend as he spoke, and both paused to listen. From the walled hut before which they were standing the sound was re- peated.
 The speaker loosened his grasp with sigh of relief.
 "Why, bless you it's Lita," he said. "What music the little organ is making tonight"
 "Poor little blind girl How much comfort she takes with it, remarked his companion.
 s.Yes. When these miners bought that little music box they made good investment. Listenp
 The music had begun again. At first it came stealing out with such a low, plaintiye sound, one might easily have fancied that it was only the night wind creeping softly round the walls oS the little cabin; then it swelled into some thing louder, deeper and more solemn; but there was subtle, yet indefnable something in its nature which caused the listeners to thrill with exultation and grow cold with dread. It seemed as though spirit more than mortal, had taken possession of the little instrument, and through its deep voice was breathing out prophecy of approaching disas ter.
 Leyton felt sudden breeze against his cheek and noticed, with alarm, that dark storm had arisen in the west. There had been one storm since his arrival from the East, and he dreaded to see another. A heavy sigh at his el- bow caused both men to turn in that di- rection. Lame Joe had come up noise- lessly behind them and stood leaning against rock. He, too, was listening and wiping an occasional tear from his eye; for the music had grown sad and dirge-like as a funeral hymn, with lingering, quivering anguish echoing through it which betokened that the soul of the musician was speaking through her music.
 But, even as they listened, the char acter of the melody slowly underwent a complete transformation, and from the depths of sorrow and despair it burst forth in glad, exultant strain-a wild, free flood of music. It was like the triumphant song of some captive bird which has beaten long its weary wings against the iron bars of cruel prison house, but, finding itself at liberty again, breaks forth into song as it wings its way toward heaven, above the clouds and storms.
 That was the end.
 Leyton and Mark Spencer passed on. The little girls present mood seemed to them too sacred for intrusion but lame Joe stopped for the goodnight kiss which the child was accustomed to be- stow upon him.
 Poor old Joe he was very lame. One leg had been left upon the battlefield of Fredericksburg, and its substitute was rude wooden stump; but such as it was, he would gladly have worn it to splinters at Lita Cohen's service, had the child permitted it.
 In spite of his affliction Joe Minion was genial old man, with kind word and helping hand for everybody yet half the miners in that little camp could have told of time when there was not more incorporate man or harder char acter among them all than he. That was before the death of his wife, tidings of which had been 8 terrible blow. Like a thunderbolt, it had sundered the barriers of pride and selfishness and penetrated his iron heart.
 IIita was comforter then. It was she who took him iii hand, and petted and talked with him until his companions began to notice with wonder that he was growing into very different man for sorrow had made the child sympathetic, and her strong influence over Joe was in great measure due to this fact.