The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1894-06-24
BY EDGAR L. WAKEMAN.
Copyright 1894.

'Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!' Ginning ever
on the air; but always and ever, while
Days viii pass with long hours dreary,
Nights all sleepless, starless grow"
rises the hopeless cry in the tinkers
heart:
Loretta, rackliel-oh LORETTA
IL
You could not have said whether Prof.
Poppett was old or young. Other per-
formers in the theater orchestra where he
literally played second fiddle had long
despaired of conclusion whether he
should be despised or revered. What
ever came, no complaint ever escaped the
lips of Prof. Poppett. He had never been
known to live anywhere The directory
was silent as 10 his lodgings. No human
outside OF the theater had been seen with
him. The most curious had found no key
to his nature.
He seemed to have but the one object in
life of existing in an atmosphere of music.
Study him assthey might, his fellows dis
covered only this: Sometimes in tender
passages of the play, or when, in opera,
pathos or passion spoke from the speech
less instruments, a tear might be seen
coursing down beneath his glasses But
this was quickly brushed away with the
end of his bow, no note being lost; for he
was too conscientious for that.
Just this, and a strange, yearning look
in his face when his dog, Nose from I'M
der his chair, tuged at the frayed ends of
his trousers, and, looking up in his mas
ter'S eyes, expressed mute JOY IN the
! melodies were all that were seen and
known of his inner life.
But Nose, the dog, more than human in
this, always understood the professor
1t had even been limited that they were
both tramps. But, all told, the two lived
only for and with each other, and they
were not an unhappy couple.
Professor Poppett was an Interpreter of
music. Nose had a soul for music. Each
in his way, worshipped Perhaps this is
what held them so closely together
BY and by the curtain rang down for
the last time upon the Grand Star Com
bination theater. Then the professor and
Nose knew the misery of beggary in a
great CITY. At last there was nothing
behind; there seemed nothing beyond so
they took to the road together.
Prof. Poppett's voice was melancholy
at best. The old violin was tuned to
more and more mournful cadences. BY
pleasant Maine farmhouses, at the sooty
doors of musical crossroads smithies,
near groups of sturdy ploughmen, drawn
from the fields to the roadside; in brisk
and pretty hamlets, at busy stage sta
tions, the professor sang and played, while
helpful Nose braYely presented the rag
ged hat. But there had grown to be that
halting in Poppett's manner, that trem-
bling hesitancy in his singing and, more
than all that leusening faith in himself,
which so vloced in ballad and instrument,
that, though all grinningly listened, only
a few rewarded.
One autumn eqening, penniless, supper
less, hopeless, the two had been hooted
out lovely, leafy Maine village, a few
miles to the north of old Portland by
the sea- Reaching a forest-edge, well
beyond pursuit, poor, simple Poppett fell
among the leaves exhausted and straight
way burst into tears.
Faiteful Nose, true and helpful to the
last, crept up beside him, pushed his
face against his masters, kissed it in his
dog fashion and whined com fortingly.
After little time the professor petite
the brute tenderly, but could only say
"Mose. Nose! You miserable, loving
dog We're in hard, hard luck Ell,
| Mose2"
Nose could not deny it.
Suddenly Nose bristled up, listened
moment, and then snapped out a quick,
sharp growl of alarm.
The professor quieted him, looked
timorously away through the night to
the far lights of the distant town, and
with bitter sigh of Encouragement,
said to his loyal companion:
God only knows where to- Nose; but
come along!"
Nose seemed to insist that somebody or
something requiring looking into was
near them; but they crossed a near little
stream, followed an unused road up a
hill, and were presently confronted by an
old rail gate standing half open
Here Poppett looked in vain for some
sign of human habitation beyond, but
could descry only the dark face of deep
woods, and, above them, the yellow horn
of an autumn moon.
He sank drearily upon a fallen log be-
side the gate, succeeding only in bringing
Nose to his side by a sharp word of com
mand-he seldom spoke TO the dog in this
way-and then leaned against the fence,
giving himself up to the direct forebod-
lngs, which were quickly succeeded by
| the stupor of utter exhaustion.
Was he dreamingl
| There came to him in reality, or dream,
the voice of maiden in song:
Days will pass with long hours dreary;
Nights all SleeplesS, starless grow"
The old violin fairly few to the pro-
| fessOr's shoulder. The bow, poised aloft.
| trembled in his hand. His head reached
far out and sidewise, as if his whole being
| thrilled in anticipation; while the dog S
tan beat lively tattoo upon the log
/ And thy Nawken lover dearie.
! - All the pain OF waiting know;
Waiting, longing, with their woe"
Oh, how that old violin kept accompani.
ment! The violin led, rather than fol.
lowed. The last line was given by the
| singer in a weird, sad minor. When its
final note was hushed, the songstress, who
was certainly nearing the musician.
seemed to listen and wait, as if to tease
and test the performer.
| He promptly repeated the melody OF
the last three lines, giving it the richest
and sweetest of coloring
With burst of such melody as Poppett
thought he had never heard equaled, the
stanZa was now finished
Darling by our troth-plight given,
Darling by. the hope Of heaven,
| Oh, lie true as / to thee
| Save the sweetest kiss for met"
The professor followed at the conclu-
sion with an improvised refrain which
filled and flooded that Maine autumn
evening with rarer music than it had
ever before oknown.
/ The musicians head laid sO near tobis