The Voice of the Grand Old Organ

60 IMPROVEMENT ERA

vinity; while from the top of a neighboring hill two pairs of hungry eyes looked down at the amazing spectacle. "Oh, you dear little calfie," said Hilda, her arms around the calf's furry neck. "We'll call it Steenie, won't we, mother?" — "Steenie!" said Peter in scorn. "It's a bull better call it Fritz!" And so, with loving and petting for the calf, and good- natured scolding for its mother, they waited till Fritz had his breakfast, and thereby got the wobble out of his legs. Then they started for home; and the sun never rose on a happier pioneer family, as old Brock and her calf were penned up in the corral.

The Voice of the Grand Old Organ

I stood, one night, by the temple, At the hour of the setting sun. The peace that rested upon me Was the peace of the Holy One. Far over the drowsy valley The shadows were falling fast, When I was called from my dreaming By the sound of a trumpet blast.

'Twas the voice of the grand old organ That spoke to the solitude, And the earth, like a wounded spirit, Lay trembling where I stood. From the great, hoarse throat of the organ It rolled down the valley broad, Like the roar of a mighty battle, Or the voice of an angry God.

Then, swift as a bolt from heaven, That voice with its thousand thrills Was hushed in a clash of thunder That died on the distant hills. Then I heard, in the throbbing stillness, (It came like the soft wind swells) A choir of the angels singing And an echo of distant bells. 'Twas the "still small voice" of the organ, That rose like a hallowed prayer, And bore through the list'ning silence The strain of a sainted air. It swelled like the tide of ocean, Then fell till it seemed to cease; And my heart and my broken spirit Were healed with its rest and peace. Theodore E. Curtis.