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A SUMMERTIME MEDLEY

A Young Violin Maker of Omaha and His Work -- One of His Creations.

Nebraska's School for the Deaf and Some of the Things It Has Accomplished.

The Negro Question and a Word for the Indians -- Mrs. Peattie Drops Into Poetry.

Love for a day -- and then, my sweet, farewell!
I would not with one accent, bid you stay.
See, not the semblance of a teardrop fell.
Even when you said 'twas love but for a
day.

Dreams are the dearest things that life may bring.
And knowledge robs us flat of these, you say.
But you will leave me with this flawless thing,
The perfect memory of love a one day.

No, let no purer day on our love dawn.
I fear to see the hideous feet of clay,
Love, go. I shall not weep when you are gone,
To think our kisses lasted but a day.

'In all centuries, at all times," says Oclave Thanet There have been artisans with the artist's soul."

There is no such a one in Omaha. His name is Clinton A. Cane, and he is to be found high up in a certain business block of the city, in a little room about 15x10, standing at his bench.

He is a young man, only 27, and he dresses fastidiously, and wears a tiny gold chain to his eye glasses, and white tie. But he is a workman all the same And his occupation is the making of violins

Long ago -- as a man of 27 counts time -- Mr. Case went to an old violin maker in this town named Fenwick, and asked him to take him for his apprentice. Mr. Fenwick was not particulary interested. He had not himself found violin making a very inspiring occupation and he did not see why anyone else should do so. But the young man insisted on being taught something of the creat. He hung around and pried about, he looked at the old man's tools and examined his woods, and asked questions. He read about tone, and its relations to other things -- its dependence upon form, fiber, space and vibration He read about varnishes, and the lost art of the old masters, and dreamt about the time when he should make a violin with strong lungs, and a beautiful voice that would sing clear and steadfast, and have a range like some great mezzo.

So, presently, he turned out a little violin. It was made flat, as Mr Fenwick had told him to make it, and it had a narrow waist, as Mr. Fenwick had also instructed. The curves were fairly true, the thing well put together, and the varnish was like satin

'I made thirty violins before I made one as good as that," confessed old Fenwick, bending over it and looking at it a little jealously. "As for the varnish, it looks as if it were made of amber"

'So it is" said the novice.

"No!' cried Fenwick. "No one knows nowadays how to make an amber varnish. It is a lost art.'

Young Case smiled back at him

"It is a found art," he said. I have found it Remember, will you, that the first violin I ever made had a coat of amber varnish. And it will grow more beautiful every year."

That was seven years ago -- the ear of the great blizzard, as we designate it out here in Nebraska. And the varnish has grown more beautiful every year

'It is a secret I alone hold," says young Case. 'It is the secret of the old masters. I said I would find it, and I did"

Sir Case has made thirty six violins since then. Some good musicians in this and in other cities possess them. People come from other towns to get these instruments, which already have a pretty fame.

For they are no longer made flat nor narrow in the waist.

'It takes full lungs and a large throat to make a large voice," the violin maker reasoned. So he built his violins with a large swell to them and a very wide waist. And he studied much to make the lines in proportion and to slope the sides of it, so that the hand would slip easily to the harmonics. He became a connoisseur in the texture of wood and a student of the effect of varnishes upon woods, and he learned at last certain laws that govern resonance and tone.

And each violin sang clearer and better, till at length he fashioned of fir and maple -- which were without flaw -- an instrument which is his masterpiece. it is a bit like a Quarnerius in its shape, but still is is original. The sides bulge in a beautiful swell, the edges make a delicate curve, all the more noticeable because the waist is so broad that one might fear a destruction of symmetry. Perhaps the instrument is an eight of an inch longer than is usual. The color is a dark brown, and through the wonderful amber varnish the maple shows its waving lines.

A SUMMERTIME MEDLEY

A Young Violin Maker of Omaha and His Work -- One of His Creations.

Nebraska's School for the Deaf and Some of the Things It Has Accomplished.

The Negro Question and a Word for the Indians -- Mrs. Peattie Drops Into Poetry.

Love for a day -- and then, my sweet, farewell!
I would not with one accent, bid you stay.
See, not the semblance of a teardrop fell.
Even when you said 'twas love but for a
day.

Dreams are the dearest things that life may bring.
And knowledge robs us flat of these, you say.
But you will leave me with this flawless thing,
The perfect memory of love a one day.

No, let no purer day on our love dawn.
I fear to see the hideous feet of clay,
Love, go. I shall not weep when you are gone,
To think our kisses lasted but a day.

'In all centuries, at all times," says Oclave Thanet There have been artisans with the artist's soul."

There is no such a one in Omaha. His name is Clinton A. Cane, and he is to be found high up in a certain business block of the city, in a little room about 15x10, standing at his bench.

He is a young man, only 27, and he dresses fastidiously, and wears a tiny gold chain to his eye glasses, and white tie. But he is a workman all the same And his occupation is the making of violins