The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1916-12-02
THE FIDDLER"

You ask about this lonely grave
Away out here in the West
BY the side of this winding tran that
leads
UP to the mountains crest?
There isn't much to tell, you'll hear
Lots stranger tales as you. roam,
An poor boy far from home.
The wind was bitter cold that night
A, slashin'; .drivin' storm,
WI, Where an was bright and warm a.. bot
The glasses tinklin' gay,
When stranger staggered thru the door
An we all turned his way
There stood a slim, good-lookin' chap
All shiverin with the cold,
He was only a boy, he couldn't have been
Much more than twenty years old;
But the thing that drew oIr attention most
Was a package, all wrapped ped ,! up p q1fee er;
L had seen for many a year
He asked to play for just one drink, .
Red" Thompson nodded his head,
He dowLed the brandy at one draught
Then, turnin', smiled and said
Il play TO re Land ola Joy an song
Far. far across re sea,
Where little Lucrece, my-a Sweetheart,
awaits
In sunny ltalee."
Then that fiddle" talked, it laughed, it
The song of the murmuring rills
That laugh an sing with the voice of
Spring
1t breathed to a maiden its tale of love,
The story of youths glad day,
1t plead, it wooed, it won and softly
Signing died away.
An then he played a sad, sweet strain
That seemed to sob an sigh,
1t walled with the voice of the lonely night
An the storm that was sweepin' by,
Soon it softly throbbed like an angel 8
Or my mothers voice, an then
Tore aside the veil of the passing years
An was boy again.
boy again in old Vermont
On the old homestead so dear,
Sounded by friends an loved ones
With Mother an Father near;
saw the little, red scho2lhouse
With the children playin' round,
i heard the willows whisper1n
Ger the family buryin' ground.
An as he played the years stole on
Till ] wed sweet Bessie Gray,
A mountain maid, with dark, soft eyes
Where the dancing un-beams lay;
Tii t they laid f by Bessie to s rest was
In the cold, cold ground, then my heart
changed to ice
I had followed the lure of the yellow gold
From Frisco" up to Nome,
But ever l saw those laughing eyes
An our little mountain home
An so. l thought of her lone grave
afar
An .-ose bitter, wasted years,
| The ice kind of thawed around my heart
An melted into tears.
An as I dreamed on the Fiddler" stopped
With sudden shrek of fright,
1 Then whirlin turned, without sayin q
word,
An ran out into the night;
| We all sat daZed, then followed fast
As we thought of that cry of pain:
| We searched, but soon found in that he'll
| of snow
That all our searchin was in vain.
Next morning we found him, dead in the
Far away from life's fears or alarms.
| His fiddle" was wrapped in his ragged
coat
An he still held it tight in his arms,
But l knew n the smile on those hoyisf
lips,
An his gentle look of peace.
| He was back again in Italy's hills
| With his sweetheart, little Lucrece.
Well, we laid him here on the mountain
With his fiddle" clasped close to hi.
breast,
| An SO ends the tale of this lonely grave
| BY winding trail in the West;
| But the boys" say whenever the darl
pines sob,
| Or wild the night wind blows.
They can hear him playin' that sad, swee
strain
An maybe they can. who knows?
Howard L. johnson.
719 Van Buren,. Topeka, Kan.