dollars for one evening's performance.

Yet the homage of the great ones of the earth, the princely gifts
bestowed upon him, the admiration of the thousands who hung
entranced on every note breathed by his magic violin, gave less
delight than the boy of fourteen experienced when he received from
an old man, whose heart his playing had gladdened, the present of
four pairs of doves, with a card suspended by a blue ribbon round
the neck of one, bearing his own name, "Ole Bull."

The soul of little Ole Bull had always been attuned to melody,
from the time when, a toddling boy of four, he had kissed with
passionate delight the little yellow violin given him by his
uncle. How happy he was, as he wandered alone through the meadows,
listening with the inner ear of heaven-born genius to the great
song of nature. The bluebells, the buttercups, and the blades of
grass sang to him in low, sweet tones, unheard by duller ears. How
he thrilled with delight when he touched the strings of the little
red violin, purchased for him when he was eight years old. His
father destined him for the church, and, feeling that music should
form part of the education of a clergyman, he consented to the
mother's proposition that the boy should take lessons on the
violin.

Ole could not sleep for joy, that first night of ownership; and,
when the house was wrapped in slumber, he got up and stole on
tiptoe to the room where his treasure lay. The bow seemed to
beckon to him, the pretty pearl screws to smile at him out of
their red setting. "I pinched the strings just a little," he said.
"It smiled at me ever more and more. I took up the bow and looked