Jim Coulter’s Violin

           

                                I

Jim Coulter was a farmer’s boy of fifteen summers just.

His form was clad in “older clothes”, his face and feet in dust.

But Jim was smarter than he looked and music was his bread;

“Could play a tune on anything,” so all the neighbors said.

“An’ stid uv hngin’ round the stores or larkin’ with the rest,

Wus allus makin’ instruments for which he seemed persest.”

But Jim had trouble from a source you scarce would ever guess;

His father laughed and looked and scoffed at all such foolishness.

And presently became so harsh that Jim was forced to steal

Away each time he wished to work or play a jig or reel.

“This farm-work must be carried on,” Jim’s father said one day,

“An’ any traps o’ yourn I find I’ll smash without delay.”

Jim had no gentle comforter, she slumbered ‘neath the hill,

And so he delved upon the farm with saddened face and still.

But boyish dreams and boyish hopes could not be driven in;

Jim stole away on rainy days and made a violin.

“A crude affair?” Why to be sure, but marvelous for him,

And brought to light the hundredth time that genius lurked in Jim.

And Jim was justly proud of it and kept it hid away,

But farmer Coulter searched for eggs and found it ‘neath the hay.

He fumed and raved and raised it high to dash upon the floor,

Then dropped his arm in partial shame and looked it o’er and o’er.

“No, no,” said he, “I can’t do that, but he will never see

This cussed trap uv his agin, not while he lives with me.”

Not many hours went by before Jim found his treasure gone,

Then threw himself upon the hay too tearful and forlorn.

Then slowly rising, full of wrath, his soul ablaze within,

Demanded of the cruel man his little violin.

“Yeour violin, yeou lazy scamp?” the harsh old farmer cried,

“Yeou might as well ask me for wealth and all the world beside.”

“The,” cried the boy, with flashing eye, his form drawn tall and thin,

“You’ll never see my face again till I’ve that violin!”

                                                              II

Ten years went by but not a word

From Jim had farmer Coulter heard.

At first he cursed the vagrant Jim,

And had as soon be rid of him.

But as old age o’er took the man

He lost contentment in his plan.

And on the kitchen wall he hung

The violin, unstrung.

In hopes that Jim some day might call

And guess its mission on the wall.

But he came not; another year

Went by and he began to fear

That Jim would never come again;

And broader, deeper, grew his pain.

Long lines of care marked deep his brow;

His hair and beard were snow-white now.

While strolling o’er the hills one day

He saw a Boston paper lay

In careless folds upon the grass

Where mountain tourists often pass.

And glancing o’er this caught his eye:

“In music Hall, assisted by

James Coulter’s famous western band,

a mammoth, summer concert grand!

                                                                 III

An anxious crowd pressed round the door

      Of Music Hall that night;

Without was naught but push and roar,

Within was gay and light.

The famous band was on the stage,

      Conductor Coulter bowed;

And then a man bent down by age

      sobbed “Jim, oh! Jim,” aloud.

For there he stood, his long lost boy

      So grand and proud and tall,

Conducting that big orchestra

      In Boston Music Hall.

The clashing strains rose wild and strong,

      Then echoed strangely sweet;

And farmer Coulter, borne along

      Grasped firmly to his seat.

He could not understand the spell,

      Nor where ‘twas taking him;

And little cared the truth to tell,

      For was he not with Jim?

When all was o’er, the music hushed,

And Home Sweet Home was sung,

The farmer to the platform rushed

      While to a parcel clung.

And with a glow upon his face

      Like one released from sin,

He sobbed aloud with his embrace:

      “Here – Jim’s – your violin.”

Jan. 23, 1892

Quoted in Conn. Valley Advertiser

      “      “ Cambridge Press