The Lost Chord

The Lost Chord A Fancy Suggested by the Cry of King David, and a Tribute to the Mem- ory of My Pioneer Mother BY T. R. KELLY In the wonderful symphony of Life, whose harmony floats in soft and gentle cadences across the years of childhood and rises and swells into the beautiful melodies of joy and hope. and glad- ness through the glorious days of youth, there are strains of in- effable sweetness which, like some old forgotten air, floats through the chambers of our inner consciousness but which, try as we will, we cannot sing nor play again— chords of tenderness and beauty that we cannot recall. The lost chord of childhood ! How our fingers grope over the keys of forgotten years vainly trying to find some echo of that marvelous harmony of childhood's days. How we strive to touch again those magic tones which were of such heavenly sweet- ness. How we strain our ears to catch a whisper of the music whose sound has grown thinner, clearer, more ethereal, until it has all but vanished in the immensity of the past. But all in vain. For those sacred memories, with the mystery and elusiveness of the days when the world was young, have been locked in the secret chambers of our hearts there to lie, deeply hidden from human eyes, until, touched by the all-effacing finger of Time, they have become a part of the eternity of past things. And yet, at times there comes to us a fleeting vision of the days around which our memory clings and which carries us across the barren waste of years and gives us a glimpse of that happy time — gives us one touch of that harmony which has gone forever. Then when we see the old home or the little Mother or the dear companions, and live again those hours of happiness supreme, we cry with David of old, "O that one would give me to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem which is by the gate." Pathetic almost beyond description is this cry of the King who, having attained to the highest pinnacle of fame and power and greatness, finds it all shattered and broken and lying in dust and fragments at his feet. He does not long for the return of res"al glorv, but his thoughts turn to the humble shepherd-home of his childhood. He sees the hills and valleys and trees and flowers of his native village and his soul yearns for a drink of the water from the well beside the gate.

1088 IMPROVEMENT ERA One of the first, perhaps the very first, things I can remember of my childhood home and my dear Mother, is the little prayer she taught* us, my brother and I, and which we would always sing before going to sleep in the tiny attic of the little house where I was born. The music so quaint and simple, and as I recall it, so soft and tender, has gone from my memory, but the words remain clear and bright, shining through the mists of years, imdimir.ed and steadfast as the stars : "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless thy little lamb tonight; Through the darkness be thou near me Watch me till the morning light. "All day long thy hand has led me And I thank thee for thy care, Thou hast clothed and warmed and fed me, Listen to my evening prayer." "Good night, my precious lambs," she would softly whisper as she tucked the coarse quilts closely about us, "Good night, my little men, sleep sound till morning." And then it did not matter if the wind whistled through the cracks in the wall or if the snow lifted in through the broken roof, we slept secure in the knowledge that Mother was near and so nothing could harm us. With the first faint streak of light which came dimly through the single pane of glass that served as a window, we bounded out of bed, and it was always a mystery to us how the little trousers and stockings, so torn and dirty after a day of terrific battles with an army of savage mullen stalks or marvelous feats of engineering in building a road along the face of a high bank near the house, it was always a mystery how they could have be- come so clean and how the holes had all disappeared. We did not know that far into the night, with the light of only a single candle, or more often only the blaze of the logs in the rough fireplace, she had toiled and mended and prayed for us all. We did not realize what sacrifices she had made, what priva- tions she had endured, what anxiety she had suffered that we mieht be "warmed and clothed and fed." It was onlv when, years afterward, we saw the worn and wrinkled face still and calm and beautiful in that last sweet rest : saw the bent and toil-worn hands lving in peaceful stillness across the breast that had been our refuse and our sanctuarv in those other days, it was onlv then that we knew what she had done for us — how intensely she had loved us. But best of all, the sweetest note of all. in that lost chord of childhood was the time when, at the end of a dav of work and worry and care, our Mother would sit with us in the gathering

THE LOST CHORD 1089 twilight and show us wonderful pictures in the ever changing forms of the clouds in the western sky. Or she would tell us about the fairies who lived in the cleft of the rock high on the side of the mountain across the canyon from our little cabin. How during the long summer day they would lie safely hid- den from prowling mice or inquisitive squirrels ; how their friend. Mr Ground Owl, would sit on the high rock above their door— we could see the door and the high rock so plainly — and watch the shadow as it slowly climbed the slope of the hill, and when it had reached the door of the Fairy House he would sound his plaintive note, then out would come the fairies, tumbling over each other, crowding, leaping, dancing, hurrying to get the first look at the beautiful moon which was slowly climbing over the crest of the eastern mountain. Then we would watch the stars as, one by one, they came into view, and our Mother would tell us the wonderful story of Orion, the hunter of the seven sisters, the Pleiades, of the Great Bear in the northern sky, and the Milky Way which shone so brightly from the depths of our dark canyon. We watched the moon climb to the top of the mountain that was the home of the Pine Woman, we listened to the drowsy cry of the night birds from the old maple grove, the faint, murmuring song of the mountain brook that came gently to our sleepy senses, and with our heads resting on the lap of our watchful, loving Mother, the cares and hurts and pleasures of the day were for- gotten and we slept. "O that one would give me to drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem that is by the gate." Harvest Fields I walked today through a clover-meadow, mown And sweet with dying bloom, Treading under my feet a glory fit to grace A king's way, or his tomb: Acres of loveliness laid low and dying Of numberless lives, only the winds sighing. And I thought, as who does not, of other fields, Flowered with unnumbered dead, Wondering how those kings, the flowers of grass, Hold up a regal head, Plan of closer cutting, redder harvest-making, All the world sighing and its heart breaking. Charles L. O'Donnell, in the New York Sun.