Years ago there occurred a touching incident in one of our beautiful parks. In the park one might have seen an aged soldier, a veteran of many battles, seated on an old bench. Near him sat a little poodle dog on his haunches, holding in his mouth his master's tattered old hat which served as a temporary receptacle for what charitable people might cast in. The ex-soldier's meager pension did not suffice for his bodily needs, so he had obtained an old fiddle which he loved tenderly. It was scratchy, and the best he could offer the public was very poor.
On this particular day nobody took any notice of him, and so, very few pennies found their way into the open hat held firm by the little dog. The old man got discouraged, and stroking his pet affectionately, he said to him, "Ah! Pierre, there will be no bone for you tonight!"
Even as he spoke, the tears flowed down his cheeks, for he was not able to check them, and the dog began to whine.
Just then a gentleman who was standing nearby, watching, stepped close up to the old man, and asked for the loan of his old fiddle for a little while. Striking the strings and adjusting them, he soon brought the old thing to somewhat normal condition. Then he began to draw from it such sweet melodies that the people passing by were arrested. Seeing the old veteran with the poodle holding the hat, they began to appreciate the situation, and so the hat was filled more than once.
But the old man did not heed the money flowing into the hat; the fiddle, his dear fiddle, was a miracle to him. How could that stranger draw such exquisite strains from that old fiddle of his? Ah! It was a master who had hold of it: a master violinist, one of the greatest. That was the secret. Kind-hearted as he was, he had appeared so suddenly; and then, his wish accomplished, after laying the old, beloved fiddle in the veteran's lap, he vanished among the bushes as quickly as he had come.
A gentleman who had witnessed this touching scene, told the gathered audience who this violinist was. He passed the hat around, and it was again filled to the brim. Now the old veteran had enough, with what he already had received, to last him to the end of his days. Hugging his fiddle and stroking the poodle, he went home to his attic room, with more than one bone for his little pet.
Beloved, are not our hearts like that old fiddle? How little there is for the Lord! Are you making melody in your heart to Him?
O Lord, we know it matters not
How sweet the song may be;
No heart but by the Spirit taught
Makes melody to Thee.
Then teach Thy gathered saints, O Lord
To worship in Thy fear;
And let Thy grace mold every word
That meets Thy holy ear.
Oh largely give, 'tis all Thine own,
The Spirit's goodly fruit,
Praise, issuing forth in life, alone
Our living Lord can suit.