I am a violin. Plain looking as I am, I have a wonderful sound. I used to play soft, sweet rhythm in the hand of my young master. But now, lying in the complete darkness, I’m totally discarded, forgotten, waiting for my end in this dead silence. The flown time appeared like dream in my declining memory. Those bitter and sweet days, like the most stubborn ghost, haunted me and refused to go.
My father was an intelligent master craftsman. Though his gift didn’t bring him any fame or fortune, his zest for the violin making had never been worn away. One day in an odorous, dirty sty he discovered a wedge of spruce, which is light and strong—perfect for the violin. Joyfully, he trade a packed of food for it with the puzzled countryman. After three weeks’ hard work, my sister and I were born into this world. My father couldn’t afford the expensive varnish for us. But I can assure you, plain as we are, we are the first-class violins with the hypnotic sound you’ve never heard!
How long did I take in the shelf to wait for my master coming up? Two years, three years? Memory puzzles herself to reply this question. Besides, I always fell confused about the time in human’s world. But it’s definitely a long, long time. All I can recall about that is many, many people have passed by without even offering me a glance. How helplessly unattractive I am! Finally I got a terrible feeling that my master perhaps would never show up, and my beautiful voice would be buried forever without even a chance to be heard
