Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1896-02-07
A Story.
Translated from the Spanish.

Translated from the Spanish
That which 1 am about to tell you is not
a fancy sketch; it is deed done before
my eyes, in the early hours of winter
night, under dark sky, upon the wet and
sodden earth, under the white light of an
electric lamp.
Listen to it. 1t deserves to be heard. 1t
has done me the favor to reconcile me to
my fellow-mortals for little while.
will tell it to you just as it happened,
without adding anything of my own in
vention.
Near the grated window of the office of
the minister of war, blind man, whom
all my readers in Madrid have seen, asks
aims. He sits in folding chair, with torn
garments, wasted form, withered features,
with discordant violin in his arms and a
brass tray on his knees. Whether it rains
or freezes, whether the heat suffocates or
the cold benumbs him, there he is, shut
out from the daylight, scraping inartistic-
ally the frayed strings of his instrument,
destroying melodies, making music to his
misery, hearing the bank clock strike the
hours, and the people and carriages pass
through the broad street, waiting for bit
of copper coin to fall in his tray so he may
put his hand in his pocket; going away at
dawn, with the violin under his arm and
the folding chair in his hand, to sleep, God
knows how, and no matter where.
Existence must be sad thing for the
poor blind man. Fortune has deprived
him of the comforts that make life endur-
able; nature, of those pleasures which
cannot be bought with money, because
money will not purchase them. With what
shall one pay for the spectacle of the blue
heavens, of mass of clouds colored by
the sun, of a dark horizon, which some
times CLOVIS and opens enough to paint on
its background rosy angles and zigzags of
purple? With what shall one pay for the
sight of a spring full of blossoms, an au-
tumn laden with fruit, of winter covered
with snow, of summer full of light?
With what the coming and going of a
multitude that passes and undulates by
our side, while here stands out the golden
head of child; there, the elegant form of
woman; and still further in the distance
are heard the snrill voices of a noisy
crowd?
This, which is beyond price, we enjoy
freely, and the unhappy blind man loses it
all; this beggar who is always alone, who,
very likely, has no family, and for whom,
perhaps, no one is waiting when he feels
his way up the stairs to his room.
After all, well or ill, unhappy or happy,
he gets enough to keep him from dying of
hunger, and he begs alone every night at
the barred window of the war office in
front of the bank of Spain.
One night of last winter / was standing
in Alcala street, in front of the blind man
with the violin. The presence of that
poor man interested me so much that |
stood gazing at him in spite of the prick
ing of the cold and the tapping of the rain
upon my face.
The blind man scraped his instrument,
and l kept on waiting, waiting without
paying much attention, either to him or to
poor little fellow of four or five years of
age, who passed and repassed before me,
with his feet and legs bare, his body hardly
covered with a ragged jacket, and his face
purple with the cold.
The little one was crying, rubbing his
eyes with his fists, choking with grief, try
ing to keep back the sobs that came up in
his throat; one of these sobs was stronger
than the power of his will; it turned into
shrek and brought me out of my rev.
erie and made the blind man interrupt his
music.
"What is the matter, my lad?n he asked
of the child, who was only two steps away
from him.
"Ay, Dios mio-Dios miow sobbed the
little one, drawing nearer.
what has happened?" said the blind
man. "Why do you cry so?" he added,
catching hold of the boys jacket and turn
ing his face toward him, just as if he could
see him.
81 am crying" exclaimed the boy, ''be-
cause am hungry and cold and afraid"
Haven't they given you anyLhing?"
Haven't you father and motherP"
mo"
"No."
"With whom do you live?"
"With nobody. The blind woman with
whom lived and with whom l begged was
taken sick this morning, has gone to the
hospital, and has left me aone.n
"Poor childW exclaimed the blind man,
drawing the unhappy little one to himself,
and with trembling hands feeling of the
bare little head, TO which the golden locks
chung dripping, the angular body that
showed under the rags of his clothing, the
thin limbs and the shoeless little feet.
Poor child so little and hungry and cold,
and without homer
The eyelids of the blind man moved rap
idly, as if he would recover a tear that
dropped on his empty hands. He put the
violin down lry his side, caught uE a rag
ged shawl that he had over his knees,
threw it around the body of the child, and,
putting his hand in his pocket, he took
out twelye-cent piece, perhaps all his
fortune, and gave it to the little one, say
ing: WRAP yourself up and eat some
thing. can do no more for YOU"
Then he pressed the little fellow in his
arms. The child looked at him with his
blue eyes full of light, stammered few
words, and burst into tears.
And l wept too.