Jasper County Democrat, Volume 8, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 July 1905 — The God In the Hurdy Gurdy [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The God In the Hurdy Gurdy

By CASPAR JOHNSON

It was a narrow alley, running between the back yards. It was intended for the convenience of the butcher's boy and the grocer’s boy and the ash man. Distinctively It was not intended for men of Pasquale Venetti’s stamp. Indeed, a sign at either end announced this in no uncertain terms. "Beggars, Peddlers arid Street Musicians Keep Out," it read. But to Pasquale Venettl warning signs in English had no terrors from the simple fact that written English was beyond his ken. Therefore as he came trundling the ancient hurdy gurdy np the street he looked into the alley, saw ‘lts possibilities—the ease with which coins could be tossed from the back windows—and, forsaking the asphalt pavements, where, to use bls own expression, he could "no getta de biz," he turned into the alley and, unlimbering his musical battery, sent up the quavering strains of “Lindy, Lindy, Yo* Is Ma Ladylove.” It is a hard, cold world. Pasquale ground away patiently, and whenever a face appeared at any of the windows he smiled expansively, removed his battered bat and bowed profoundly and even essayed a joyful shuffling of his feet while he turned the crank. But, despite all these blandishments, to say nothing of the appeal made by a choice assortment of selections, ranging from the classic to ragtime, no coins wrapped In white paper came jingling to his feet. To be sure, one fat cook came out to the back gate and after he had played half through the hurdy gurdy’s assortment gave him a penny, and an old gentleman bad raised an upper window and, with a thundered “Get out of this!’* had flung him a dime. But 11 cents from such a promising alley! Pasquale resented bls ill treatment and moved farther up the alley. No better success attended him here. He whistled, he danced, be sang. He smiled his best and bowed his lowest. He tried the Intermezzo and “Ma Filipino Man” with an equal lack of success. He had his labor for his pains. He moved to the far end of the alley, with a view to quitting It. He made

one final stand, however, before the back of an Imposing bouse. With a sinking heart be sent up the Jerky bars of a march from a popular light opera. The bouse, like all the others, was unresponsive. Then be shifted to ragtime. He decided to play through bis repertory anyway. If it failed, be would go back to the asphalt pavements and try his luck somewhere downtown before a restaurant or a promising saloon. Now, It happened that in the big, dim back parlor of the Imposing bouse sat two young people, and a single glance showed that they were not happy. The man sat very stiff and straight In bls chair and bit bls lips. The girl was seated on a low divan. Her face was flushed and her eyes glowed angrily. "It is far too much to forgive this time,** she was saying. "I have forgiven and forgiven—eternally forgiven —and now I am tired,” The man replied coldly. "Perhaps you are right,” be said in a strained voice. "And the sooner It’s over the better, now,” said the girl, choking. The man started up. Whatever remonstrance be was about to make be stifled. "Very well,” be said curtly. The girl pulled a ring from her finger and laid It on the table beside the man. He took it without a word and put It In bls pocket. "I might say”— be began slowly. "All you could say would make no difference,” she said wearily. The man rose and strode to the window. Pasquale was grinding away assiduously. At the sight of the man In the window he smirked and bowed and shuffled his feet. The man smiled bitterly. "Lucky, happy devil!” be muttered. Then be turned to the girl and drew himself up stiffly. "I may as well say goodby,” said ue. She made no reply. “Goodby,”. he said again. “Goodby,” she returned evenly.

The man hesitated a moment; then he strode to the door. In the alley Pasquale had come to the last piece in his repertory. It was a poor imitation of portions of Schubert’s “Serenade.” Just as the man reached the door the jingling notes floated in from the alley. The man paused. A look of pain came into his face. Those jerky notes brought memories with them—memories of a big, dark music room with two little spots of red in the gloom where the candles burned on the piano; of a girl beneath the candles—a girl with white neck and gleaming shoulders, playing the serenade very softly; of a few breathless words whispered over her shoulder; of a pair of luminous eyes which flashed an answer that set bls heart pounding madly. ♦ • ♦ And now a hurdy gurdy playing that sacred serenade in the alley—and this. It was heinous sacrilege. —— —— “Lord, I can’t stand that,’> he muttered, and turned to the girl a face drawn and white. “Goodby,” he said as If the words choked him. But the girl’s face had whitened also. Bhe took a step forward. “Robert,” she said with wide, frightened eyes. • •••••• In the alley Pasquale ground away hopelessly. Suddenly a window was raised and a coin dropped at his feet. It was a shining, yellow coin. Pasquale Venettl gasped, turned it over in his palm, and then whooped. In a burst of gratitude he began the repertory all over again, and such was his elation that be essayed to heighten the effect by singing in a , high, squeaky voice. The orgy was soon over, however, for a patrolman came down the alley and seized the exuberant musician. The thought of the yellow coin in his pocket enabled Pasquale to bear this ordeal with equanimity. “Alla right, alia right”’ he protested mildly as he was hustled past the warning signs and dumped unceremoniously on the asphalt pavement.

SUDDENLY AT HIS FEET WAS A YELLOW COIN.