Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1891-12-18

,ho clink of gold, he was accustomed to
Green quietly into the church and there
n+olk to himself as he called it, at the old
orgap which answered him back again
with A tender sympathy and power of CON
collation. which no mere human listener
,oulj ever have afforded. The organ of
Ct Winifreds was of comparatively small
size and made but scanty show of pipes or
nslols but the blackened case and much
worn KEYS had been fashioned by the Gun
ming brain and skiful fingers of Father
Smith" himself, and never had the renown-
Cd old organ-builder turned out more
skiln piece of workmanship. And Michael
Fray. hy use of years and loving tender
study, had got by heart every pipe and stop
in the rare old instrument, and had acquir-
ed am almost magical power in bringing out
its tenderest notes and noblest harmonies
Hear him this Christmas Eve as he sits
before the ancient keyboard, one feeble
candle dimly glimmering over the we'll
worn page before him Pickering weirdly
over the ancient carving, and calling into
momentarv life the effigies of a mitred
abbot and mailed crusader. A feeble old
man whose sands of life have all but r nm
out a sad and tremulous old man W tn
shaking hands and dim, uncertain eyes But
when they are placed upon those yellow
KEYS. the shaking hands shake no longer,
the feeble sight finds no labor in those well
remembered pages. Under the touch of
Michael Trays deft fingers, the ancient
organ becomes instinct with life and har-
monv The grand old masters lend their
nohIest strains and could they revisit
earth. need ask no better interpreter
From saddest wall of sorrow to sweetest
strain of consoation-from the dirge for
the loved and lost to the ppan of the iubilant
yctur-each shade of human passion, each
tender message of divine encouragement
take form and color in succession under
the Old mans touch Thus, sometimes Dor
rowing the song of other singers, sometimes
wandering into quaint Holan harmones.
the spontaneous overflow of his own rare
genius, Michael Fray sat and made music
charming his sorrows to temporary sleep
Time crept on, on, but the player needed
it not till the heavy bell in the tower abov,
his head doomed out the hour of midnight
and recalled him to reality again. Will
two or three wailing minor chords h,
brought his weird improvisation to an end
Dear me-" he said, with a heavy sigh
Christmas. again Christmas again How
many times, l wonder Well, this will b'
the last and yet Christmas comes, anC
finds me here still, all alone. Dear, dear
First poor Dick and then my darling
Alice and little Nell-all gone YOUNG
and bright and merry-ali taken ! An'
here am I-old, sad and friendess-an'
yet live on Well l suppose God knows
best !" While thus thinking aloud the ole
man was apparently searching for some
thing among the music books, and nov
produced an ancient page of manuscript
worn almost to fragments, but pasted TO
preservation, on piece of paper of late
date. :'Yes, here it is, poor Dicks Christ
mas song. What a sweet voice he had
dear boy If he had only lived-but there
I'm murmuring again. Gods will b
done !"
He placed the music on the desk befor
him, and after a moments pause began il
hute-like tones to play the melody, at tn
same time grooming the words in feebl
voice. He played one verse of the song
then stopped and drew his sleeve across hi
ewes. The sense of his desolation appeare
to come anew upon him ; he seemed t
shrink down, doubly old, doubly feeble
doublv forsaken-when 10 ! marvel Sud
denly from the lonely street without, i
that chill midnight, came the sound of
violin and sweet young voice singing tn
self-same words to the self-same tender al
the song written by his dead and gon
brother forty years before
The effect on Michael Fray was electric
al. For a moment he staggered, bu
caught at the keyboard before him an
held it with convulsive grasp.
Am l dreaming, or are my senses leavin
me Poor Dicks Christmas carol and
could almost swear the voice is my own los
Nellie's. Can this be death at last. An
are the angels welcoming me home wit
the song | love so dearly No, surely
either am going mad, or that is rel
living voice But whose-whose Heave
help me to find out !" And with his who
frame quivering with excitement-withor
pausing even to close the organ, or to e'
tinguish his Pickering candle the old ma
CROPPED his way down the narrow, windin
stair which led to the street, and, hurried
closing the door behind him, stepped fort
bareheaded into the snowy night.
For some hours before Michael Fray WI
startled, as we have related, by the myst
rious echo of his brothers song, an old ma
and young girl had been making the
way edwards from the southeastern sic
of London. Both walked YEARLY as thong
they had tramped from long distance
and once or twice the young girl wiped awe
a tear, though she strove hard TO hide
from her companion and forced herself
speak with a cheerfulness in strange co
trast with her sunken cheeks and footso
gait Every now and then, in passiI