The Little Violinist | Page 4

the dazzling career of policeman had lost

something of its glamour in the eyes of Talbot.
It is my custom every night, after the children are snug in their nests
and the gas is turned down, to sit on the side of the bed and chat with
them five or ten minutes. If anything has gone wrong through the day,
it is never alluded to at this time. None but the most agreeable topics
are discussed. I make it a point that the boys shall go to sleep with
untroubled hearts. When our chat is ended, they say their prayers. Now,
among the pleas which they offer up for the several members of the
family, they frequently intrude the claims of rather curious objects for
Divine compassion. Sometimes it is the rocking-horse that has broken a
leg, sometimes it is Shem or Japhet, who has lost an arm in
disembarking from Noah's ark; Pinky and Inky, the kittens, and Bob,
the dog, are never forgotten.
So it did not surprise me at all this Saturday night when both boys
prayed God to watch over and bless the little violinist.
The next morning at the breakfast-table, when I unfolded the
newspaper, the first paragraph my eyes fell upon was this:--
"James Speaight, the infant violinist, died in this city late on Saturday
night. At the matinée of the 'Naiad Queen' on the afternoon of that day,
when little James Speaight came off the stage, after giving his usual
violin performance, Mr. Shewell {1} noticed that he appeared fatigued,
and asked if he felt ill. He replied that he had a pain in his heart, and
then Mr. Shewell suggested that he remain away from the evening
performance. He retired quite early, and about midnight his father
heard him say, 'Gracious God, make room for another little child in
Heaven.' No sound was heard after this, and his father spoke to him
soon afterwards; he received no answer, but found his child dead."
1 The stage-manager.
The printed letters grew dim and melted into each other, as I tried to
re-read them.
I glanced across the table at Charley and Talbot eating their breakfast,

with the slanted sunlight from the window turning their curls into real
gold, and I had not the heart to tell them what had happened.
Of all the prayers that floated up to heaven, that Saturday night, from
the bedsides of sorrowful men and women, or from the cots of innocent
children, what accents could have fallen more piteously and tenderly
upon the ear of a listening angel than the prayer of little James Speaight!
He knew he was dying. The faith he had learned, perhaps while running
at his mother's side, in some green English lane, came to him then. He
remembered it was Christ who said, "Suffer the little children to come
unto me;" and the beautiful prayer rose to his lips, "Gracious God,
make room for another little child in Heaven."
I folded up the newspaper silently, and throughout the day I did not
speak before the boys of the little violinist's death; but when the time
came for our customary chat in the nursery, I told the story to Charley
and Talbot. I do not think that they understood it very well, and still
less did they understand why I lingered so much longer than usual by
their bedside that Sunday night.
As I sat there in the dimly lighted room, it seemed to me that I could
hear, in the pauses of the winter wind, faintly and doubtfully
somewhere in the distance, the sound of the little violin.
Ah, that little violin!--a cherished relic now. Perhaps it plays soft,
plaintive airs all by itself, in the place where it is kept, missing the
touch of the baby fingers which used to waken it into life!

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