The Hesperian / (Lincoln, Neb.) 1885-1899, November 24, 1892, Page 10, Image 10

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ipSpplJO, Antono, 1 have told thee many,
many times, no, thou snail nor
sell it until 1 am gone."
"But I need money; what good
is that old fiddle to thee? The
very crows lau"h at thee when
thou art trying to play. Thy hand trembles
so thou canst scarce hold the bow. Thou
shalt go with me to the Blue to cut wood to
morrow. See to it thou art up early."
"What, on the Sabbath, Antone, when it
is so cold ? get so very cold, my son, let
us not go to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow, thou lazy old man. Do
not cut wood upon the Sabbath ? Care 1 how
cold it is? Wood thou shalt cut, and haul it
too, and as for the fiddle, 1 tell thee I will
sell it yet." Antone pulled his ragged cap
down over his low, heavy brow, and went
out. The old man drew his stool up nearer
the fire, and sat stroking his ,iolin with
trembling fingers and muttering, "Not while
Hive, not while I live."
Five years ago they had come here, Peter
Sadelack, and his wife, and oldest son An
tone, and countless smaller Sadelacks, here
to southwestern Nebraska, and had taken up
a homestead. Antone was the acknowledged
master of the premises, and people said lie
was a likely youth, and would do well. That
he was mean and untrustworthy every one
knew, but that made little difference. His
corn was better tended than any in the county,
and his wheat always yielded more than
other men's.
Of Peter no one knew much, nor had any
one a good word to say for him. He drank
whenever he could got out of Antonc's sight
long enough to pawn his hat or coat for
whiskey. Indeed there were but two things
he would not pawn, his pipe and his violin.
He was a lazy, absent minded old fellow,
who liked to fiddle better than to plow,
though Antone surely got work enough out
of them all, for that matter. In the house
of which Antone was master there was no
one, from the little boy three years old, to
the old man of sixty, who did not earn his
bread. Still people said that Peter was
worthless, and was a great drag on Antone,
his son, who never drank, and was a much
better man than his father had ever been.
Peter did not care what people said. He
did not like the country, nor the people, least
of all he liked the plowing. He was very
homesick for Bohemia. Long ago, only
eight years ago by the calendar, but it
seemed eight centuries to Peter, he had been
a second violinist in the great theatre at
Prague. He had gone into the theatre very