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‘, going!’ the voice was loud, And, rising, silenced the chattering crowd. ‘Going! going! shall it be gone?’ The auctioneer held up an old violon. ‘The mute though tarnished is silver still, The aged strings have not lost their skill.’ They laughed in scorn as he praised the case. The ebon nuts and the polished face— Jokingly betted together that none Could draw a tune from the old violon. When lo ! from out of their midst appeared A man of countenance strange and weird, With gentle touch laid his thin hand on The polished face of the old violon. ‘Thou scorned, thou worthless,’ the stranger said ‘Wake, heart of music, art thou too dead?’ As though some spirit long slept awoke, A faint, low sigh from his fingers broke. 2