sound. The choir of untutored
singers in church services made tears fall from his eyes upon his
hymn-book while he joined his small voice with theirs.

Although Jonas let his tears fall unwittingly, the organ-builder saw
them and treasured them in his heart. When the boy had reached his
eleventh year the family left the country town and came to live in New
York. Here the father determined to let his son learn the organ.

"Remember, Jonas," said he, "I am a poor man, and can ill afford to go
into this expense unless you do the work before you manfully and
patiently. I give you this profession instead of a trade because I
believe it to be your wish."

Jonas was entirely satisfied, and his slim fingers quivered in the
anticipation of one day being able to move those mysterious white and
black keys to the sound and measure of _Te Deums_ and chants. A
teacher was selected whose manner of educating was thorough and
profound. At the first lesson Jonas became unequivocally assured that
the business was a serious one, when after a third time striking G
instead of G-sharp, the heavy, quick blow of the master's stick hummed
and stung across his hands as they hovered over the organ keys. Poor
little fingers! they could work no more that day--they were stiffened
and red. He wept so profusely that he was requested to retire and to
return in two days.

All the way home he sobbed, and held his hands suspended from the
wrists, a most pitiable object. "Ah! you old ruffian!" soliloquized
the tearful pupil, "won't my father give it to you for this?"

He found his father in the workshop.

"Well," cried the organ-builder, "how went the lesson?" He saw there
had been trouble.

Jonas with fresh tears showed his chafed fingers and told the event.
The father listened with darkened brow, and when the sad tale was
ended he solemnly led his son into a back room, and after inflicting a
thorough corporal punishment, warned him in a terrible voice never
again to complain of his master.

Our hero felt for a while that this was almost beyond human endurance,
and for several hours he lay upon a pile of shavings plotting
vengeance upon those he considered his worst enemies, when a sudden
thrill shot through him at the sound of the rich organ tones. They
came from his father's wareroom. Evidently a master hand was there.
Jonas sat up and listened. It was the portion of a prelude by
Sebastian Bach, and the marvelous harmonies seemed to speak to Jo