The Coconino weekly sun., 1895-11-07
RUBY REDCLIFF,
 Bora In N O., La in 1884 Died Cnwept, save by one Friend. Sept, 1, 1895

Naturally I was impressed by the newly made grate and the strange in scription. "Unwept save by one friend" was pathetic, indeed. Cross ing the fence, mashed down the grass and sage clinging about the base of the stone, in the hope of finding further in formation. But the search was in vain those were the only words, and was left to speculation. Had parent been passing that way, victim of poverty or an exile from scenes of former pros perity, and had the child fallen sick and died? Had she been abducted by one who loved her and yet had no right to her possession, and while being hurried through that region her footsteps, like Dickens Little Nell's, had died out forever?
 \ tramp is not necessarily heartless he may carry hidden in his bosom pictures and memories that are tender and forccful enough to keep his steps from wandering into hell. It is not to be wondered at that as I tarried there
 
 wandering to other days when had a home and little ones, when youth and hope were buOyant, and I, too, could say of the world:
 Robed n universal harvest, up to either pole.
 she smiles,
 Universal ocean softly washing all her warless
 isles"
 But that was long ago, and enough of 1t. Almost forgetting the world in the bitterness which succeeded my first recollections, l did not notice the length of time l was tarrying there. l know that l was soon surrounded by dark ness, and, strangely enough, while not ing everything around me, felt that l was yet under some sort of a spell. While l could look on the stars peering like so many eyes from heaven and think and feel the chills pass down my back as an owl passed over me, snap ping it's beak as it winged onward, Was arrested and kept from moving by the sweetest strains of music had ever heard, coming from no particular di- fection, it appeared, but falling around and on me like Slumber; as sweet were they as notes from some divine instru- mcnt, soft as 1 have imagined the voices of saints who lean over the walls, calling souls to glory.
 am not superstitious, thinli-was 1t not Bulwcr who indirectly said that fortunate men are the superstitious?- Out the music seemed supernatural, and as the sounds became more distinct be- cause nearing or because more force was thrown in the rendition, l was cer- tam that they proceeded from a violin undoubtedly under the delft touch of masterhand. The air became quite a'StlngulShab!e after awhile-it was fa@anini's Carnival of Venice."
 Peering into the darkness, thought could see the shadowy and indistinct outline of man. Was not dreaming Inc white face with it's strangely luininous eyes beckoned me on, while the fingers performed their duty on the aioilh; and involuntarily followed the hSure as it slowly recedcd like shadow before the dawn, straining every nerve to lose none of the air. My soul, too, went out with the music-traveled on and on until in imagination ] became a denlzen of the old world following the enraptured Nicolo Paganini through US cities and becoming his worshipei as he entertained houses in Vienna raris, Parma and Milan, drinking in ms melodies as if inreality lived hioro than half q century ago.
 freSently the music ceased, and the ph"Htom figure, stooping, slowly ex, ,'No'o forward 6 pale hand, as small as ""olIan's, and placed in mine a letter