Virginia free press. (Charlestown, Va. [W. Va.]) 1832-1916, 1890-03-26
MR.. A. HAWKS IN PENNSYLVANIA
Italian Music Airdkens S'ceet memories
ofDeparted Days IN Dear
old Virginia.

from Wanamakeryllle nave peen ua'ei
ing in Germany. At least | suppose have
been travelling in Germany, for nearly all
the people who do not speak German, speak
badly fractured English; and they come at
you in so many different ways they hash
their sentences. l was driving up from
the depot 10 little town the other day, and
said to the driver:
81 want to see Mr.. Didlehopperdomore;
do ysu know if he is in town ?"
"Did you want to see him once"
"Well. | wouldn't mind seeing him
twice"
"vell, he is in town, but | don't think
you can see him."
"Why not ?"
"vell, you see he wa. Citing himself bu-
ried ?"
Getting himself buried what fOr?"
ooh well, he was dead once"
And that's the way it goes.
To-day at dinner, for instance, we have
seven kinds of pie. Among them was
new kind to me it was brown sugar pie.
As it may be new to SONS of my fair read
ers who are interested in the worlds fare,
give the directions how to make one.
You want to make more than one. You
make pie crust, crusty crust, with plenty
of shortening, considerable length and good
depth. Then you fill it with brown sugar
and bake it. Then you give it to your
husband for dinner; then you collect his
life insurance.
Well, / am fond of new things, and call
ing the haxen haired, blue eyed, rosy
checked waitress to me, with an Edwin
Booth gesture, l said:
evil you bring me another piece of pie,
please!"
Lemon, orange. raisin, pumpkin, cheese
or brown sugar pies"
Brown sugar, please"
She disappeared for moment and then
returned with face considerably elongat-
ed.
81 am very sorry, sir, but the brown sugar
pie is all"
"All what"
"Why. it's all"
"Well, don't want all of it, just a
piece"
"But we haven't any, its all"
1t then dawned upon my eclouded mind
that when she said it was "all," she meant
it was all gone.
"Oh you mean it's all gomez"
"Yes, sir, it's all"
have no doubt she thought was very
dumb man. Well, maybe l am, but she
wasn't dumb belle by any means.
helped to celebrate st. Patrick's day in
thres separate and distinct towns. | had
greens for breakfast, dinner and supper.
If this letter should be slightly disjointed
and unconnected and have sort of mac
caroni flavor, you will please blame it on
three Italian players who are in the room
beneath me. One harps on a harp and the
other two do violence TO violins.
The music is not particularly musical,
but it pierces the ceiling and the drum OF
the ear. And although they are doing
murder most foul in n chicken hearted way,
yet some old tunes they have been playing
have set memory to work, and played
strange tricks with my fancy. Even now
they are playing cold Black Joe" All!
where am |
Back in an old Virginia town, in crowd
ed hall, the orchestra consisting of three
pieces, has played few bars of the air. and
out upon the stage see "Old Black Joe"
know my friend, and the burnt cork,
ragged clothes, bent form and :ottering gait
add very much to the effect, as in his rich
vevety tones he sings
Use coming. yes, coming for my head is
bending low
And the grass grows green above his
grave, down in old Virginia, and the voice
is hushed on earth, but somehow that violin
has caught it and held it. The tune
change. and the tears come all unbidden as
another half forgotten song comes up into
my lonesome room and peoples it with
old familiar faces. The violin has voice
and my heart hears it singing:
"When the Roses Come Again"
When did l first hear that song
A girl with closed lids is singing in the
dark. She is bind, but like most blind
people her soul is fl ed with music And
then strolling player is singing it for me.
One of my friends hears him, and the song
becomes his own. The room is haunted,
oh friends of my youth, stay awhile and
bring the echoes, happy echoes of the past
with you.
1t is Sabbath morning in the old home
church there is a hush and then to the
tune OF when the Roses Gene Again"
rich, full voice is singing:
Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly"
Dear old walls, of the dear church, you
hold the echoes still. And the singer is
still singing. The violinist, all unconscious
of what he is doing, begins playing The
E;ss Ual,- Wbv -. old Tool, H. H..