Northern Wisconsin advertiser. [volume] (Wabeno, Wis.) 1898-1925, 1901-05-16

sources, and he tried to earn a few
dollars by teaching. He was given
the position of organist at one of the
churches and the meager salary help
ed him to live. But he was lonely,
in bad health and had no friend,
brother, or sister. His life was so
desolate that ever strangers noticed it
and would speak a kind word to the
gray-haired musician.
But there was one bright spot to
cheer his last days. She was beauti-
full southern girl, with the fair, soft
complexion of the southern cline.
She had seen but 10 summers and
was as sweet and unselfish as she was
beautiful.
Rosa Whitfield was his favorite pu-
pill and she always tried TO throw a
few rays of sunshine into his life.
Sometimes when the lessons were
over, she would pin a rosebud on his
coat or send some little delicacies to
his lonely studio. Often there were
big punches of southern roses. He
would place them on his piano and
play out his soul to the sweet-scented
beauties. Once he pressed bud in
book and pinned it to poem.
But the gray hairs were growing
thicker among the thin locks and his
health was failing. One morning in
the fall, that pretty Indian summer of
the south, he went to her home to give
lesson as usual. She saw that he
was very weak and she did not want
him to teach that day. But he in
sisted. He needed the money and she
reluctantly yielded. That morning
she sang sweeter than usual and there
was something especially tender in his
music.
But the effort was too much for him.
All of sudden his head began to reel,
his eyes to grow dim and his voice to
| fall. He clutched at a chair and fell
to the floor. He awoke on the couch
and felt the touch of gentle hand
upon his brow. He seemed to realize
that the end was drawing near and his
| eyes filed with tears as he gazed upon
the young girl. If a friend like the
one beside him could do so much for
an old man, what would love have
been in his younger days? She had
| been so kind to him and ne owed so
much to the tender words and gentle
deeds. He seemd to be thinking of the
! past as he looked into her eyes and
began to talk.
Your name is Rosa. 1t is a sweet
name. You are my friend, you-you
are my Rosa" Then sudden light
came into the old mans eyes and he
sprang from the couch.
my Rosa!" he exclaimed. "My
Rosary! l will write a song and it
shall be called that for you" The
gray haired musician faltered min
ute and then added in pathetic voice,
land l fear it will be my last"
1t was then that one of the sweet
est songs ever written was born. He
was enthused with the 1nsplrauon and
though almost unable to stand alone
went to his studio. There, all night
long, by the light of an oil lamp, he
toiled at the piano, putting his emo
tions into music.
BY daylight it was finished. He
made a copy and carried it to her to
/ try. He never played an accompani-
ment as he did that morning and she
sang the song as it has never been
sung since. A week later she sang it
in a concert and it caught the public
/ ear like a whirlwind.
But the musician never recovered
from the shock He took to his bed,
and gradually the eyes dimmed until
last week they closed forever. During
his illness almost every morning
there was a bunch of roses beside his
bed, that had been gathered by the
fair southern girl, and often she would
drop in for a minute to cheer him up
and bring some delicacy which she
had prepared with her own hands to
| tempt his appetite 1t was she that
sat beside his bed and cooled his brow
as the last light in his eyes died away.
The funeral took place at the church
which he had served as organist. 1t
was al unusually solemn occasion.
Just as the minister finished his dis
/ course, a beautiful sunny-faced girl
stepped to the chancel rail and began
the soft, sweet strains of melody to
the tender accompaniment of the great
organ. The dead composer lay at her
feet. The audience was as still as
death, and many eyes were filled with
tears. The song was finished and the
remains were taken from the church.
my Rosary" had new meaning for
those who heard the song that morn
ing. At the head of the grave the same
girlish figure placed large bunch of
roses, and on the ribbon was written
the opening notes to the tender melody
which is stirring the hearts of thou
sands by it's peculiar sweetness.
What Tommy Atkins Eats.