The Lexington intelligencer. [volume] (Lexington, Mo.) 1901-1949, 1903-02-14

III OltenNlcu street, mister.
"Down town, Ipresume. Must you
60 home tonight
The boy shrugged his shoulders
with a gently depreciating smile.
Nobody don't care if IdOn he an
swered.
"Then you had better stay here.
You can sleep on the couch, yonder,
when you're all cleaned up. You are
wringing wet and cold as ice. Tell
you what, I'll run a tubful Of warm
water, and you can take your bath
while l hunt up some dry things.
After that you can tell me about your
self"
When the strange little figure
emerged from the bathroom arrayed
in Haswell's spacious pajamas, with
his black silken thatch washed and
curling crisply all around his pale
face, Haswell noticed that his deli
cate, refined beauty was quite ex-
traordinary andaltogether irreconcil-
able with his rags and misery. Haswell
poured out the coffee he had stepped
over his alcohol lamp, and set before
his guest a plate Of crackers and
cheese which he babe him eat, while
he finished his work, but although
the host made a creditable feint of
writing, he did mot for an instant take
his eyes from the beautiful, pallid
face which the mellow freglow threw
into sharp relief. Why did that
stranger child interest him so over
whelmingly? he asked himself, grim
ly; was it because of the possible story
it held or had he touched the CLOSED
over springs Of human sympathy
which had lain dormant so long I'M
der the stolid indifference that
cloaked the hermit Of the flats?
1t was a pathetic little story that
the lad had to tell, and he told it in
faltering English, with now and then
a word Of his Seryian mother tongue
to offset its pathos; OF his immigrant
father, a musician in the old country,
who had been obliged to take work in
a factory to avert starvation, whose
death occurred shortly after through
an explosion Of the factory works; of
the subsequent wanderings in a
strange city. His only friends had
lately been engaged to travel with a
concert band, and he was trying to
find a countryman who had promised
i'm an insignificant part with his wan
dering band. He was quite alone in
the world, without kindred, or
friends, or money. His only hope
was to obtain work enough to pay his
return passage to Seryia. Haswell
asked many questions, but the lads
story never deviated except to add
some pathetic detail which showed
1ow much toll and p%rivation his
goung life had known.
81 used to take a great deal of pleas
are in music" said Haswell, when the
;hild had finished his story and drawn
ais chair closer to the blazing hearth.
Suppose you play something for me
if you are warm enough to handle
your violin. l want to know what you
can do"
Rhuel tucked his old violin under
his chin and frightened the slack
strings, then he dried his bow care
fully and began to play, very softly
and delicately, a weird little melody
unlike anything Haswell had ever
heard, more sad, more beautiful and
infinitely sweeter. There was a lack
Of technique and defniteness in his
touch which would bar a successful
hearing with the coldly critical pub
lie, but to Haskell, whose soul was
stirred to its inmost depths by the
spirit of pure melody, it seemed in
expressibly lovely. 1t brought new
pictures to his mind, of unsupported
beauty, OLIVES Swallowed by want and
poverty, t~oilersin the dark whom such
as he, to whom much had been given
should minister comfort and cheer
He seated himself before his desl
and began to write, without %conscioul
effort or WEAKNESS, the story that tn,
child's music inspired. The boz
played on increasingly, glancing nov
and then at the hand hurrying across
the paper, until at last Haswell lifted
his head and smiled.
"You are tired, Pm sure" he said
in a voice Of singular gentleness
"Put away your violin and go to be,
in my room, yonder. want to fnisl
MN .,ronlr 49, Ill. IL. II