Chapter I: The Violin-Maker

Over a slum his sign swings out,
Over a street where the city's shout
Is deadened into a sob of pain--
Where even joy has a minor strain.

"Violins made," read the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings;
Over a street where people give
Their right to laugh for a chance to live.

He works alone with his head bent low
And all the sorrow and all the woe,
And all the pride of a banished race,
Stare from the eyes that light his face.

But he never sighs and his slender hand,
Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand--
Fastens it tight, but tenderly
As if he dreams of some melody.

Some melody of his yesterday....
Will it, I wonder, find its way
Out to the world, when fingers creep
Over the strings that lie asleep?

Or will the city's misery
Mould the song in a tragic key--
Making its sweetest, faintest breath
Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

Maker of music--who can know
Where the work of his hand shall go?
Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
Comfort to ease the suffering--

Maybe his dreams will have their part
Buried deep in the music's heart....
Out of a chain of dreary days,
Joy may come as some master plays!

Over a slum his sign hangs out,
Over a street where dread meets doubt--
"Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
Over a street where sorrow sings.