The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1914-10-15

place of his poor effects to satisfy the
landlords demand.for rent.
All that was left was some few
sheets of manuscript music, bed,
chair, and some cooking utensils.
1t was the end of hope, ambition,
of all-complete failure having met
the composers efforts.
His left hand grasped the neck OF
the violin tightly, and his eyes wan.
dered about the bare room.
Then, as the sky darkened, the first
breath of summer crept In at the win.
dow. A warm south breeze, so soft
as to be barely felt, but bringing with
It the first tidngs of brighter days to
those who had felt the long winters
cold.
Unheedingly the young man lifted
the violin up to his chin, and his right
hand crossed the bow over the strings,
He hesitated minute; then cast a
look at the sky and with bold sweep
Of the bow began to play.
1t was waltz, throbbing with pas.
sion, full and harmonious. The sad
notes of the bass strings in a minor
key followed each other to the time,
crying sadly like q lament OF a lost
soul far away
Ever changing in melody, the waltz
carried in it the first four thrilling
notes. They crossed, repeated, re-
treated, and returned.
The first breath Of summer caught
these notes, carried them out Of the
attic window over the smoky roofs OF
Paris, held them, played with them,
sent them to the wondering ears OF
other poor people who lived in attics
and in lodgings near by. Women
stopped sewing Children ceased yidy.
ing. Men dropped their forks and,
leaving their evening meal, crept on
tiptoe to the open windows and lis,
tened
Suddenly the music grew louder,
more intense, and the time Quickened
to madness. Then four long drawn
notes. the same as at the beginning,
rang out and-there was silence.
AS the last note was sounded the
composer fell dead from the intense
effort and the past months OF starya.
ton.
The little summer breeze carried
with 1t his grand composition and his
soul.
A man sat in an Office before rich.
ly carved desk
He was plainlooking business
man, fat, In white waistcoat. Before
him on the desk lay much money.
His fat hands, sparkling with valu-
able rings, gathered up the crisp notes
and slipped them into rubber bands,
packing them into packets of ten thou.
sands. He then got up and carried
these packets to large safe set into
the wall of the office, placed them in
drawers, and locked the safe, signing
when he had done, like person does,
having lifted a heavy weight.
He then switched on the light and
threw open the big office window, look
ing out onto a busy square filled by
hurrying people and vehicles.
He stood at the window some min
utes. The summer breeze crept into
the office, touching his cheek with its
warm caress.
1t held music In its impalpable vapor
that heartrending waltz with its
deep chords and simple harmony.
The banker drew his handkerchief
from his pocket and wiped his brow,
his hand trembling as he did 80. A
chill passed over him.
He hastily closed the window and
then sank into a chair. He felt un-
nerved and weak. His eyes wandered
about the office in troubled way.
The music had full possession OF
him. 1t held him in its cruelty ire
sistible power while, standing before
the safe, he saw poorly clad figure
holding violin to its chin, its pale
face looking upward. its right arm
swinging the bow.
The figure was no ghost in the bank
er's eyes. TO him 1t lived.
He saw the aristocratic profile of
tii' pinyti, 90 NitdiIy 'ut 90 a Nulhto
The neck and profile brought vague,
fal-off memory to the banker,
He was young again. Very young,
at his fathers country place. In his
mind he saw the old trees, the lawns,
and moonlight nights Of June.
He saw Lucille, the farmers daugh.
ter, as she crept In her pretty bare,
white feet over the moonlit grass to
meet him under the shadow OF the
oaks.
He remembered his fathers anger
the hurried departure, the long sea
voyage to foreign lands. The return,
and the news OF Lucile's trouble and
death.
The waltz was drawing near the
end
AS the last four notes filled the Office
with their magic harmony the banker
held his arms out toward the figure
and cried, his voice full OF longing:
Speak! Speak! My son!"
But 1t was too late
AS the last note left the ghostly VIC.
lin tho figure Of the player vanished
Change Always Going On.
Change Is inevitable In a progress