The Cape Girardeau Democrat. (Cape Girardeau, Mo.) 1876-1909, 1895-11-09

Naturally 1 was impressed by the
newly made grave 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 1 was
left to speculation. Had a parent been
passing that way, a 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 hat region her footsteps, like
Dickens Little Nell's, had died ont
forever?
\ tramp is not necessarily heartless
he may carry hidden in his bosom
pictures and memories that are tender
and forceful enough to keep his steps
from wandering into hell. 1t is not to
be wondered at that as 1 tarried there
beside the grave my thoughts went
wandering to other days when l had 4
home and little ones, when youth and
hope were buOyant, and /, too, could say
of the world:
''Robed IN universal harvest, up to either pole.
she smiles,
Universe ocean softly washing all her warless
isles"
But that was long ago, and enough of
az NIr,,-+ F,rro4r,-,. H., ,-orll -, IL,
bitterness which succeeded my first
recolIections, did not notice the length
of time | was tarrying there. l know
that l was soon surrounded by dark
ness. and, strangely enough, while not
ing everything around me, L 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 its beak as it winged onward, l
was arrested and kept from moving by
the sweetest strains of music had ever
heard, coming from no particular di-
rection, it appeared, out falling around
and on NE like slumber; as sweet were
lllCN de- HOlSS 1IOlh SOllc ulNlilt lHSlIu-
ment, soft as l have imagined the
voices of saints who lean over the walls,
calling souls to glory.
1 am not superstitious, l think-was
it not Bulwer who indirectly said that
fortunate men are the superstitious?-
but 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 GER
tain that they proceeded from a violin
undoubtedly under the deft touch OF
a masterhand. The air became quite
.distinguishable after awhile-it was
Paganini's Carnival of Venice"
Peering into the darkness, 1 thought
1 could see the shadowy and indistinct
outline of a man. Was L not dreaming?
The white face with it's strangely
luminous eyes beckoned me on, while
the fingers performed their duty on the
violin; and l involuntarily followed the
figure as it slowly receded like a 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 l became
q denizen of the old world following
the enrapturedN icolo Paganirithrough
its cities and becoming his worshiper
as he entertained houses in Vienna.
Paris, Parma and Milan, drinking in
his melodies as if 1 in reality lived more
than half a century ago.
Presently the music ceased, and the
phantom figure, STOPPING, slowly eX-
tended forward a pale hand, as small as
awoman's, and placed in mine a letter.