Chicago eagle. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1889-19??, 1893-11-11


finished the church was almost dark, and
all the light there was came through the
stained glass windows and gave melan-
choly tinge to it ALL One ray from the
setting sun as it broke through the clouds
fell fair upon the old mans head and
gided his snow-white hair until he
looked almost young again. The lines
in his face seemed to fade away rs he
talked along in his low, sweet voice.
For time almost forgot the reality of
the world outside and was lost in the
enthusiasm and fervor of the old must
clans story. | can give you a pretty
good idea of what the old man said, for
it made a deep impression on me at the
time; thought then that would write
it up some time. But | haven't. 1t
would seem almost sacrilege to treat his
ideal any less earnestly than he did. |
couldn't write that sort of story, any.
way, but I'll try to tell it TO you just as
he told it to me.
Yes, can tell you his story, now that
he is dead-poor boy-so full OF life and
hope and promise that it seems almost as
though it could not be-
| must have grown TO love him more
than knew. for now that he is dead. /
feel indeed that have lost friend. Yet
/ never knew him, never spoke to him.
lie was young man, while my youth
has gone so far into the past that it seems
as though never had been young. He
was man of the world, with many
friends, and what am | but a poor, old
tired out musician, living by adding what
little can TO the pleasure of others! |
have looked upon his face for the last
time. lie is dead, and they have carried
him forth from this great church, where
his friends were gathered together to
show as best they could the love and re-
spect they bore him. We heard the
minister say those words of consolation
and hope. old, yet ever new, 81 am the
resurrection and the life" What more
could he have said?
Now all are gone and you and are
left alone up here, with my thoughts
and the memories of other years that
come flooding over me. The light from
those rich colored windows is already
beginning to fade away and these evening
shadows give an added gloom to this
dreary place Not one of all that crowd
that was so lately here ever gave thought
to the old musician, and yet it seems to
me that knew him better than any of
them | knew his hopes and fears and
| knew what the sorrow was that spoiled
his life and made him glad to die.
| There was one other, but she learned it
| when it was too late.
saw her, too, to-day. She was pale
and sad eyed and when the voice of the
singer rang out rich and clear, bearing
aloft the words of that sweet hymn Of
hope, "And is this all Z" felt somehow
that she was weeping and that she knew
it was not all.
/ remember so well the first time that
| saw her. She was but girl then, just
growing into womanhood and | was one
of the musicians who played at the ball
given in honor of her first appearance in
society. Yes, she was what they call a
society girl, but she looked to me like
one who was able to lead and not to fol-
low others. Well born, rich and beauti-
full, life must have looked very fair to
her | remember she was spoken of as
the most successful debutante of the sea-
son. She was beautiful, Of that there
was no doubt, with dark hair and eyes
that would start man to improvising
wild and noble music, with passionate
and tender strains, but with here and
there Earring note, for there was some
thing about her eyes that seemed out OF
place-a proud, ambitious look that did
not become young girl and that made
her look older than she really was. She
was that sort OF woman that might in
spire a man to noble deeds if she would,
or else to wreck all beside rather than
to lose her; whom man might love,
and, losing, die for | knew that even
though was but lonely old musician.
| often wonder whether the people at
receptions and balls in the great world
ever give thought to the musician:
sitting Off by themselves and playing
for their pleasure. Do they ever realize
for moment that we see all that goes on
about us and are the unseen audience Of
many farce and comedy and tragedy
Many ball room is the scene of events
that may make or mar life, and we
musicians, left out OF account and
screened, perhaps, behind flowers aud
foliage, are often the closest and most
} interested spectators. A queer life is
this of ours, going from house to house,
from reception to ballroom, playing our
parts in scenes in which we really have
no part. Yet we are always there. Dur
: ing the gay season we may see the same
) faces again and again, day after day,
night after night, until We get to know
them we'll New faces come, familiar
faces disappear from our view, yet many''
the one we follow with interest. We sec
people meeting for tne first time. They
talk idly for while, dance together
and, perhaps, never see one anothe
again. Or the following winte
we see them together everywher
we 90 and, seeing one, we know RICH
well we will see the other not far away
One can tell great deal If one only see
a persons eye light mp as il it sees
, wished-ior face appear. That may b
all, or TIE friendship may ripen int
more. So the world wags, and SO
will continue to wag on long after m
/ fingers have lost their cunning an,
! grown stiff and cold
) How often have played right merrill
! at a young girls first dance, aud later o
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