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"No, Antone, I have told thee many times, no, thou shalt not sell it until I am gone."
"But I need money; what good is that old fiddle to thee? The very crows laugh at thee when thou art trying to play. Thy hand trembles so thou canst scarce hold the bow. Thou shalt go with me to the Blue to cut wood to-morrow. See to it thou art up early."
"What, on the Sabbath, Antone, when it is so cold? I get so very cold, my son, let us not go to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow, thou lazy old man. Do not I cut wood upon the Sabbath? Care I how cold it is? Wood thou shalt cut, and haul it too, and as for the fiddle, I tell thee I will sell it yet." Antone pulled his ragged cap down over his low heavy brow, and went out. The old man drew his stool up nearer the fire, and sat stroking his violin with trembling fingers and muttering, "Not while I live, not while I live."
Five years ago they had come here, Peter Sadelack, and his wife, and oldest son Antone, and countless smaller Sadelacks, here to southwestern Nebraska, and had taken up a homestead. Antone was the acknowledged master of the premises, and people said he was a likely youth, and would do well. That he was mean and untrustworthy every one knew, but that made little difference. His corn was better tended than any in the county, and his wheat always yielded more than other men's.
Of Peter no one knew much, nor had any one a good word to say for him. He drank
whenever he could get out of Antone's sight long enough to pawn his hat or coat for
whisky. Indeed there were but two things he would not pawn, his pipe and his violin. He
was a lazy, absent-minded old fellow, who liked to fiddle better than to plow, though
Antone surely got work enough out of them all, for that matter. In the house of which
Antone was master there was no one, from the little boy three years old, to the old man of
sixty, who did not earn his bread. Still people said that Peter was worthless, and was a
great drag on Antone, his son, who never drank, and was a much better man than his father
had ever been. Peter did not care what people said. He did not like the country, nor the
people, least of all he liked the plowing. He was very homesick for Bohemia. Long ago,
only eight years ago by the calendar, but it seemed eight centuries to Peter, he had been
a second violinist in the great theatre at Prague. He had gone INto the theatre very
It was all different now. He had nothing to drink and little to eat, and here, there was nothing but sun, and grass, and sky. He had forgotten almost everything, but some things he remembered well enough. He loved his violin and the holy Mary, and above all else he feared the Evil One, and his son Antone.
The fire was low, and it grew cold. Still Peter sat by the fire remembering. He dared
not throw more cobs on the fire; Antone would be angry. He did not want to cut wood
to-morrow, it would be Sunday, and he wanted to go to mass. Antone might let him do that.
He held his violin under his wrinkled chin, his white hair fell over it, and he began to
play "Ave Maria." His hand shook more than ever before, and at last refused to
work the bow at all. He sat stupefied for awhile, then arose, and taking his violin with
him, stole out into the old sod stable. He took Antone's shot-gun down from its peg, and
loaded it by the moonlight which streamed in through the door. He sat down on the dirt
floor, and leaned back against the dirt wall. He heard the wolves howling in the distance,
and the night wind screaming as it swept over the snow. Near him he heard the regular
breathing of the horses in the dark. He put his crucifix above his heart, and folding his
hands said brokenly all the Latin he had ever known, "Pater noster, qui in cœlum
est." Then he raised his head and sighed, "Not one
In the morning Antone found him stiff, frozen fast in a pool of blood. They could not
straighten him out enough to fit a coffin,