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Cherished his sight and touch by temperance；
And since keen sense is love of perfectness；
Made perfect violins； the needed paths
For inspiration and high mastery。〃
And as if the year were not full enough of glory； the school…teacher
sent him a book with a wonderful poem in it。
That summer's teaching had been the freak of a college student； who had
gone back to his senior year strengthened by his experience of village life。
Anthony Croft； who was only three or four years his junior； had been his
favorite pupil and companion。
〃How does Tony get along？〃 asked the Widow Croft when the teacher
came to call。
〃Tony？ Oh； I can't teach him anything。〃
Tears sprang to the mother's eyes。
〃I know he ain't much on book learning；〃 she said apologetically；
〃but I'm bound he don't make you no trouble in deportment。〃
〃I mean；〃 said the school…teacher gravely； 〃that I can show
him how to read a little Latin and do a little geometry；
but he knows as much in one day as I shall ever know in a year。〃
Tony crouched by the old fireplace in the winter evenings；
dropping his knife or his compasses a moment to read aloud to his mother；
who sat in the opposite corner knitting：
〃Of old Antonio Stradivari；him
Who a good quarter century and a half ago
Put his true work in the brown instrument；
And by the nice adjustment of its frame
Gave it responsive life； continuous
With the master's finger…tips； and perfected
Like them by delicate rectitude of use。〃
The mother listened with painful intentness。 〃I like the sound of it；〃
she said； 〃but I can't hardly say I take in the full sense。〃
〃Why mother；〃 said the lad； in a rare moment of self…expression；
〃you know the poetry says he cherished his sight and touch by temperance；
that an idiot might see a straggling line and be content；
but he had an eye that winced at false work； and loved the true。
When it says his finger…tips were perfected by delicate rectitude
of use； I think it means doing everything as it is done in heaven；
and that anybody who wants to make a perfect violin must
keep his eye open to all the beautiful things God has made；
and his ear open to all the music he has put into the world；
and then never let his hands touch a piece of work that is crooked
or straggling or false； till； after years and years of rightness；
they are fit to make a violin like the squire's； a violin that can
say everything； a violin that an angel wouldn't be ashamed
to play on。〃
Do these words seem likely ones to fall from the lips
of a lad who had been at the tail of his class ever since his
primer days？ Well； Anthony was seventeen now； and he was
〃educated；〃 in spite of sorry recitations；educated； the Lord
knows how！ Yes； in point of fact the Lord does know how！
He knows how the drill and pressure of the daily task；
still more the presence of the high ideal； the inspiration
working from within； how these educate us。
The blind Anthony Croft sitting in the kitchen doorway had
seemingly missed the heights of life he might have trod； and had walked
his close on fifty years through level meadows of mediocrity； a witch
in every finger…tip waiting to be set to work； head among the clouds；
feet stumbling； eyes and ears open to hear God's secret thought；
seeing and hearing it； too； but lacking force to speak it forth again；
for while imperious genius surmounts all obstacles； brushes laws and
formulas from its horizon； and with its own free soul sees its 〃path
and the outlets of the sky；〃 potential genius forever needs an angel
of deliverance to set it free。
Poor Anthony Croft； or blessed Anthony Croft； I know not which；
God knows！ Poor he certainly was； yet blessed after all。
〃One thing I do；〃 said Paul。 〃One thing I do；〃 said Anthony。
He was not able to realize his ideals； but he had the 〃angel aim〃
by which he idealized his reals。
O waiting heart of God！ how soon would thy kingdom
come if we all did our allotted tasks； humble or splendid；
in this consecrated fashion！
III。
〃Therein I hear the Parcae reel
The threads of man at their humming wheel；
The threads of life and power and pain；
So sweet and mournful falls the strain。〃
Emerson's _Harp。_
Old Mrs。 Butterfield had had her third stroke of paralysis；
and died of a Sunday night。 She was all alone in her little
cottage on the river bank； with no neighbor nearer
than Croft's； and nobody there but a blind man and a small boy。
Everybody had told her it was foolish to live alone in a house
on the river road； and everybody was pleased in a discreet
and chastened fashion of course； that it had turned out exactly
as they had predicted。
Aunt Mehitable Tarbox was walking up to Milliken's Mills；
with her little black reticule hanging over her arm；
and noticing that there was no smoke coming out of the chimney；
and that the hens were gathered about the kitchen door clamoring
for their breakfast； she thought it best to stop and knock。
No response followed the repeated blows from her hard knuckles。
She then tapped smartly on Mrs。 Butterfield's bedroom window
with her thimble finger。 This proving of no avail； she was
obliged to pry open the kitchen shutter； split open a mosquito
netting with her shears； and crawl into the house over the sink。
This was a considerable feat for a somewhat rheumatic elderly lady；
but this one never grudged trouble when she wanted to find
out anything。
When she discovered that her premonitions were correct；
and that old Mrs。 Butterfield was indeed dead； her grief
at losing a pleasant acquaintance was largely mitigated
by her sense of importance at being first on the spot；
and chosen by Providence to take command of the situation。
There were no relations in the village； there was no woman
neighbor within a mile： it was therefore her obvious Christian
duty not only to take charge of the remains； but to conduct
such a funeral as the remains would have wished for herself。
The fortunate Vice…President suddenly called upon by destiny
to guide the ship of state； the general who sees a possible
Victoria Cross in a hazardous engagement； can have a faint
conception of aunt Hitty's feeling on this momentous occasion。
Funerals were the very breath of her life。 There was no ceremony；
either of public or private import； that； to her mind；
approached a funeral in real satisfying interest。
Yet； with distinct talent in this direction； she had always
been 〃cabined； cribbed； confined〃 within hopeless limitations。
She had assisted in a secondary capacity at funerals in the families
of other people； but she would have reveled in personally
conducted ones。 The members of her own family stubbornly
refused to die； however； even the distant connections living
on and on to a ridiculous old age； and if they ever did die；
by reason of a falling roof； shipwreck； or conflagration；
they generally died in Texas or Iowa； or some remote State where
aunt Hitty could not follow the hearse in the first carriage。
This blighted ambition was a heart sorrow of so deep and sacred
a character that she did not even confess it to 〃Si；〃 as her
appendage of a husband was called。
Now at last her chance for planning a funeral had come。
Mrs。 Butterfield had no kith or kin save her niece； Lyddy Ann；
who lived in Andover； or Lawrence； or Haverhill Massachusetts；
aunt Hitty couldn't remember which； and hoped nobody else could。
The niece would be sent for when they found out where she lived；
meanwhile the funeral could not be put off。
She glanced round the house preparatory to locking it
up and starting to notify Anthony Croft。 She would just run
over and talk to him about ordering the coffin； then she could
attend to all other necessary preliminaries herself。
The remains had been well…to…do； and there was no occasion for
sordid economy； so aunt Hitty determined in her own mind to have
the latest