Early twilight was setting in on the Holy Eve. In the streets of the city
stirred the bustling preparation for the holiday. The great stores were
lighting up, and crowds of shoppers thronged the sidewalks and stood
stamping their feet in the snow at the crossings where endless streams of
carriages passed. At a corner where two such currents met sat an old man,
propped against a pillar of the elevated road, and played on a squeaky
fiddle. His thin hair was white as the snow that fell in great soft flakes
on his worn coat, buttoned tight to keep him warm; his face was pinched by
want and his back was bent. The tune he played was cracked and old like
himself, and it stirred no response in the passing crowd. The tin cup in
his lap held only a few coppers.
There was a jam of vehicles on the avenue and the crush increased. Among
the new-comers was a tall young woman in a fur coat, who stood quietly
musing while she waited, till a quavering note from the old man's violin
found its way into her reveries. She turned inquiringly toward him and
took in the forlorn figure, the empty cup, and the indifferent throng with
a glance. A light kindled in her eyes and a half-amused smile played upon
her lips; she stepped close to the fiddler, touched his shoulder lightly,
and, with a gesture of gentle assurance, took the violin from his hands.
She drew the bow across the strings once or twice, tightened them, and
pondered a moment.
Presently there floated out upon the evening the familiar strains of "Old
Black Joe" played by the hand of a master. It rose above the noise of the
street; through the rattle and roar of a train passing overhead, through
the calls of cabmen and hucksters, it made its way, and where it went a
silence fell. It was as if every ear was bent to listen. The crossing was
clear, but not a foot stirred at the sound of the policeman's whistle. As
the last strain of the tune died away, and was succeeded by the appealing
notes of "'Way Down upon the Suwanee River," every eye was turned upon the
young player. She stood erect, with heightened color, and nodded brightly
toward the old man. Silver coins began to drop in his cup. Twice she
played the tune to the end. At the repetition of the refrain,
"Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from the old folks at home,"
a man in a wide-brimmed hat who had been listening intently emptied his
pockets into the old man's lap and disappeared in the crowd.
Traffic on street and avenue had ceased; not a wheel turned. From street
cars and cabs heads were poked to find out the cause of the strange
hold-up. The policeman stood spellbound, the whistle in his half-raised
hand. In the hush that had fallen upon the world rose clear and sweet the
hymn, "It came upon a midnight clear," and here and there hats came off in
the crowd. Once more the young woman inclined her head toward the old
fiddler, and coins and banknotes were poured into his cup and into his lap
until they could hold no more. Her eyes were wet with laughing tears as
she saw it. When she had played the verse out, she put the violin back
into its owner's hands and with a low "Merry Christmas, friend!" was gone.
The policeman awoke and blew his whistle with a sudden blast, street cars
and cabs started up, business resumed its sway, the throng passed on,
leaving the old man with his hoard as he gazed with unbelieving eyes upon
it. The world moved once more, roused from its brief dream. But the dream
had left it something that was wanting before, something better than the
old man had found. Its heart had been touched.