--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Curtis, Theodore E. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 21 number: 1 published: 1917-11 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Theodore E. Curtis, "The Voice of the Grand Old Organ," *Improvement Era* 21, no. 1 (November 1917): 60.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2101unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2101unse start_page: 60 end_page: 60 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1917-11) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2101unse publication_year: 1917 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1917, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # 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.