The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1911-01-09
The EVENING STORY
On the Borderland.
BY ROB M. CAMPBELL
{ From s.Said a Kansas Man"

(From "Said a Kansas MANI
The printers devir' put his COM
posing stick on the window sill near
his stool and leaned his head upon
the type case. He was drowsy after
the long Saturdays work and, besides,
it was unusually warm for early
spring.
He was all alone. The foreman and
editor had both left as the rusty hands
of the old clock on the wall pointed
to four. The ticking of the ancient
time-piece was all that broke the still
ness in the room.
Outside the wind sang in the wires
of the telegraph. 1t was weird
sound, but Withal strangely soothing.
And the boy felt need of comfort
even from Natures voice. The spring
season always brought sad recollec-
lions. Each blooming of the fruit
blossoms recalled a poignant sense OF
loss. True, he was only a very small
boy when it happened-but sometim es
the sorrows of childhood grip and tear
For when children, we have not yet
acquired that stoicism which counts
all events, good or bad, as only pic
lures moving rapidly across canvas.
So in the years which had elapsed
since the tragedy the sense of loneli-
ness and emptiness of existence often
overwhelmed him. But on this spring
day the blow of the recurring grief
laden memories was softened. 1t al
most seemed that from an invisible
presence came a message of comfort.
The lads reverie was broken by
low whine. He raised his head and
saw the foreman's dog, which had
come into the room. The animal
frisked about the place and then
crawled under the imposing stone and
tried to coax him out but failed. All
at once he noticed it was growing
dark. So the devil dumped his
half filled stick in the galley and
under the table came the fretfui
whine of the dog. Finally, the beast
skunk out into the room and ran
whimpering down the stairs to the
street.
AS the dog left, the young printer
his case. It had been opened on ac-
count of the warm day. But the sash
stuck and required considerable eff
fort to close it. Slightly fatigued with
sill, half closed his eyes, and leaned
his face against the pane. UncoR-
sciously he saw the lamps of the store
windows in the street below light one
by one. In shadowy outline across the
street doomed the church.
Was the building illuminated now,
or was the light in the window next
to the organ reflected from the stores?
At the time the idler gave the ques-
ton little thought. The choir had
been practicing there that afternoon,
and their music had floated into the
printing office The boy supposed that
by now the church was deserted
but were the faint notes he heard
played by a lingering musician, or the
aeolian harp effect from the wind in
the wires outside the office?
Whatever it was, it was lulling
Gradually the listeners head fell back
against the window jamb. Then, as he
afterWard told the home folk, it
seemed that the notes blended into
a melody sweet, plaintive and consol-
on an old violin. With rush through
his mind, flashed a series. of pictures.
He saw the parlor filled with guests
and a tall girl of sixteen playing on
violin. while he, a child then, sat en-
tranced on a stool at her feet. The
vision changed. He was trudging
through the snow in the open country.
Then he heard a farmers voice say
ing: I'm sorry. kid, but that there
fiddle's already done been Sold The
choked him, and he felt the storm of
sohs which for hours had assailed
him once when a child of seven For
when our childhood aircastles fall,
we cry until we can weep no more;
but as our maturer mind palaces van
hmm ediately begin to build again.
Another scene came into the boys
mind. He was sitting under a plum
tree in full bloom. In his hands was
violin improvised from a cigar box
and broom wire. across the rude
strings he drew a bow made from a
piece of old buggy whip. And he al
most imagined he played music like
that he had heard one September
night. At the same time, he wonder
c+r.on w
seemed to play hide and seek with
the sunshine among the branches.
Just then his mother stole softly to
him. ST am so sorry to tell you-I
intended not to, but some thfng makes
me-" she said. You remember the
lady who played the violin at our
house last fall and was burned in a
Christmas tree fire? Well. we have
just heard she's-she's dead. She
never was well since the fire, and o,
George. they say she kept asking
about you all the time she was sick"
Once more the boy endured the
spasm of agony which had followed
those words. And in all existence, no
than that of child at Deaths first
Homecoming. Often, If the parents
act unwisely at these times, there is
likelihoodof the chfld's finer sensibil-
tiles becoming du1led and blunted.
and his capacity for sympathy some
what lessened.
The shock of his old grief brought
the youth abruptly back to the pres
emit No more mind sketches came.
The melody had gradually died away.
Occasionally, however few soft
notes sounded, but he thought likely
these were only the whispers of the
wind in the wires.
Soon these ceased. The lad tried
to attribute all of his strange expert
ence to natural cause.-the music to
an unexpected organist in the church.
or partly to the wind; and his mental
pictures-well, he had been thinking
about the tragedy that afternoon any
way But-what combination of
stops had the supposed organist used
to produce such a remarkable violin.
effect?
SO he puzzled on his way home.
When he arrived the young woman