St. Paul daily globe., 1896-04-05

over his baby lips had to tell to his mother
the last words of his father, and she in turn
had told him the reason Of the tragedy.
They were trying new guns at Solothurn,
the city Of which Zuchvill was really sub
urb. His father, who had been away for a
few weeks, had not heard Of the proposed ex-
pertinent, and did not notice the signs mark
ing the danger line. Daily his mother re-
preached herself for not warning him, and
daily, also, she told her boy Of his father
until the memory Of him became an ideal than
which there could be none better.
After his fathers death his mother and he
had gone to live at the inn, "Die Schnepfe."
She was his teacher in all things and his
companion. She loved the violin and she
taught him to love it. The little Marie, the
child of the innkeeper, was his playmate and
fellow student. His mother told him they
had but little money left, just enough by
saving, to send him to school so that he
might become great man, as his father had
wished.
They lived there a long, long time, and it
all was long time ago. So it seemed 10
him, yet he was but twelve; and they might
have lived on there forever, he and his good
mamma, If it had not been for her brother.
Here the boy gave his bow a vicious jerk.
His mamma had been rich, but her brother
had done something with her money. and
even after that he would send her letters
that made her cry. Her brother was in
America, and one day she said they must go
to him. When they came to New York her
brother was in the hospital his mother said
and cried. After while he died. He knew
now that 1T had been the prison hospital.
When he wanted to go back his mother said
she had no money. Then she had tried to
get work to do, and they had lived in little
room In big building, on a dirty street.
nothing like the beautiful Zuchvill, yet it was
To- tic nfh Ii1ra1
But she became ill and he sold papers and
between times played his violin on the streets
His mother had said that it was begging but
when your mother Is Ill, what will you dc? Z?
So he went on playing and did not tell her.
When she was dying she had told him to
remember his fathers example and to be
true to his faith and his country. She told
him 1t would be better to leave the great
wicked city, now that he was alone, and go
to Detroit. She had heard that there were
many Poles there. Perhaps 1t would be easier
for son Of Brunislav Bernascki to make his
way there. Besides, she wanted her boy to
grow up where he could sometimes see trees,
and grass and sky.
So he played his way to Detroit. 1t was
only six weeks since his mothers death, but
it seemed very long since then.
He played on, Polish airs and Swiss mel
odies. He knew little American music. The
Americans have no songs, he thought they do
not need them. Only those who have no
country and no father and no mother, who
are hungry and homeless sing; or, if
they have beautiful hills and mountains, as
in Switzerland to echo back the yodels, they
| might sing for joy.
Out Of the corner of his eyes he saw a
little shadow edging steadily nearer. The
shadow had curls a broad hat and skirts, and
then another smaller shadow in knicker-
| bockers crept near it. The boy turned his
head little. 1t might have been Marie of
Die Schnepfe,' at whom he was looking for
just so he remembered her as she was when
! he and his mother came to America. He had
been playing life into his memories, and the
fancy seized him to make believe that this
little girl was his old playmate. He smiled
a little to reassure her for his sudden turn.
and she, on her part came a little nearer
and leaned comfortably against a tree oppo-
site him.
Then he began playing little song which
he and Marie used to sing. 1t was in the
Swiss dialect and composed by friend of his
| mothers. 1t belonged to Zuchvill, and to no
other place as much did the meadow and
the beechwood and the view of the Weissen-
| stein.