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Ebook has 435 lines and 18508 words, and 9 pages

Illustrator: Edith Francis Foster

Release date: November 14, 2023

Original publication: New York: H. M. Caldwell Co, 1903

DADDY JOE'S FIDDLE

DADDY JOE'S FIDDLE

H. M. CALDWELL CO. PUBLISHERS NEW YORK & BOSTON

PAGE

"'THIS IS A 'PORTANT MATTER. "GUESS SO" WON'T DO. SAY "YES," PLEASE'" 32

"'SHALL I ASK OUR FATHER?'" 51

"SHE STOOD A MOMENT IN MEDITATION, THE VIOLIN ALREADY UNDER HER CHIN" 71

"'I'VE SAVED YOU FROM THE GREAT WI-WILL-MECQ'" 91

"IT WAS AS THOUGH ALL THE PLAINTIVE STORY OF A DYING RACE HAD BEEN STORED IN THAT LITTLE RED CASE" 97

DADDY JOE'S FIDDLE

A tall clock in the hall was striking eleven. A tired, but very wide-awake, little girl was climbing the stairs. "Land sakes, child! Hear that? Go straight to sleep now. It's wicked for grown folks to be up this time of night, say nothing of young 'uns."

With the thought of Daddy Joe came a new grievance. "And I just won't let any one hurt it, either, I won't. I love it, too. If Aunt Mean knew, she'd call me wicked, but she sha'n't know--ever. I'll make out I didn't like the concert, so she can't guess. No, I won't, either, I suppose that 'ud be a lie. I just won't say anything 'tall about it, 'cause I did like it. Oh, how I liked it, though! Still, I most wish there had been some one for me to stay with, so's I couldn't have gone, 'cause now I'll wish and wish for always to hear some more.

"I wouldn't mind so much about the girl in a white dress that sang those songs, or the man who played on the black organ, somethin' like the one at Sunday school, only blacker and sweeter--it's the fiddle I mind. It sounded like the river when it rubs against the little stones and tumbles over the rocks; and pretty soon it seemed just like the stream by the mill-dam, so big and strong-like, with it's mind all made up. And then, by and by, it whispered. I wanted to cry then,--it was funny when I liked it so, too,--it whispered ever and ever so low, like the leaves talk together just before the rain falls, almost just like a violet smell could be if it made any noise."

The moon was rising above the trees. The beauty of the mill-stream music was forgotten for the murmuring leaf sounds. A softer mood stole over her heart, stilling its turmoil.

Chee laid her head against the window-frame. Lower and lower it drooped, until it rested on the sill. The moon had disappeared when she awoke. The road was swallowed up in blackness. The room was so dark she could not see her little bed. She felt around, found it, and crept in. Still, sweet, far-off strains echoed through her dreams, bringing a smile--half-rapt, half-yearning.

It was scarcely daylight. A small white figure was picking its way, barefooted, across the dusty attic floor. It paused beside an old-fashioned, hair-covered trunk. Chee's waking thought had been of the wonderful concert. Led by some unconscious motive, she had sought the loft for a sight of Daddy Joe's fiddle. Raising the lid of the trunk, she slowly drew forth one article after another,--a scarlet shawl with little glistening beads fastened in its fringe, a pair of moccasins, a heavy Indian blanket wrought in gay colors, a silken scarf. She thoughtfully stroked the rich goods of the scarf and slipped her feet into the moccasins. "My mamma's feet were most's little's mine," she said, in the customary whisper of her reveries.

Spying a small box, she pulled it out and opened it. Across its cover was printed in large, uneven letters, "Mamma's Playthings." Lovingly she took in her arms a much worn corn-cob dolly; only a few streaks of paint were left for its face, only a few wisps of hair for its wig. She handled some little acorn cups and saucers as though they had been the frailest of china. Then, with a sigh, she remembered what had brought her to the attic, and laid aside several rudely moulded figures of clay. The trunk was almost emptied of its contents before she drew forth a battered violin case, opened it, and with reverent hands lifted out Daddy Joe's fiddle. The bridge had slipped; instinctively she straightened it. "My Daddy Joe's own dear fiddle." Closing her eyes, she tried to remember how he had looked with the violin under his chin. Perhaps, after all, imagination as well as memory painted the picture before her,--her father's tall, straight form as he drew the bow across the strings; a fainter vision of the gaily blanketed woman by his side.

"And I was there, too," she murmured, dreamily fingering a string of Indians beads that hung around her neck. For some reason Aunt Mean has never taken these away from her. With a fold of her night-robe she began to polish the instrument. In doing so she disturbed one of its yellow strings. A low, trembling note vibrated through the loft. Chee's face glowed. She would make music for herself. Why had she not thought of that before? In her delight, the child put both her arms around the old violin and passionately hugged it.

Taking the bow from its place, she said, "I'll find the way they do it. I'll begin this very night. Nobody shall hear it, 'cause they're way downstairs. 'Sides, they'll be asleep."

Chee trembled with excitement. "I'll hide it where I can find it in the dark," she continued, stealthily, "so Aunt Mean'll never know. She'd most kill me if she found out. I wonder why her mother named her such a name. Maybe she guessed what she'd be like when she got old, like the squaws used to long ago, or maybe it only just happened to fit her." With these meditations she carefully hid the old violin box behind a chest.

Miss Almeana Whittaker, the while, was placidly untying her nightcap. She was not in the least suspicious that her heathen niece, as she chose to call her, was awake at this early hour. She often told her brother that children kicked against going to bed at night, and might just as well kick about getting up in the morning. To Chee, she would say, "Go to bed so's to get up."

"Chee! Chee!" came from the stairway.

"Yes, Aunt, I'm awake."

"What's struck her to wake this early?" she asked, but that was the last she thought of it.

After repeated trials and no music, she grew discouraged; even her untrained ear found something very, very wrong. "It's the fiddle," she concluded, "it's too old. It won't work. If I only had a new one now, brandy-new from the store, I know I could do it. I hear lots of songs in my head, but I can't hear them in the fiddle." However, the idea that the violin was too old was soon corrected.

One Sunday morning Chee sat in church, thinking there must be baby birds just outside a window near. The songs the old birds were singing made her think so. It had been a bright day, but for a moment the sky was clouded.

"What a terrible big bird Culloo must be to hide the whole sun! There, he's gone now. I do hope he will stay away." Chee shuddered a little. Aunt Mean frowned at her from the end of the pew. She could not understand her niece's fanciful, almost superstitious ideas. It was not strange that so sensitive a nature as Chee's, of which the fantastic beliefs of her mother's race were a prominent part, could have little in common with the blunt, doctrinal mind of Aunt Mean.

All the little sounds of the outdoor world had each a separate individuality for Chee. The tall, stiff poplars in the churchyard, mingling their metallic rustle with the dainty murmur of the willows, caused Aunt Mean to think, "I guess it's going to blow up a storm, the trees air a-rattling."

"The poplars are singing with the willows," thought Chee. "Their voices sound together just like little Sadie's and her grandpa's when they stand up to sing." Sadie was a dear, wee tot of a girl, with soft, flying hair. She sat in the pew ahead of Miss Almeana. Her grandpa was a tall, stiff-jointed old gentleman. He wore a very long, shiny coat, and, no matter how warm the day, there was a turkey-red scarf around his neck. His eyes were small, and glinted like steel. His nose was thin and straight, and his face always pale. When he left his pew he immediately put on a high silk hat. Nor did he consider himself in church until he had reached his old-fashioned seat and closed its door.

Chee did not like the grandpa very well, he made her feel chilly, she said; but often she longed to change her own stiff, jetty hair for Sadie's fuzzy curls. Her thoughts of the birds and the trees and Sadie's curls were suddenly checked by Mr. Green, the minister, who was saying, "It is something like a violin--the older it grows, and the oftener it is used, the more valuable it becomes."

Chee instantly straightened herself in her seat. "Did he mean the older it is the better it plays? How could he? How funny! Other things wear out, why don't fiddles? Guess he must be mistaken, 'cause 'less Daddy Joe's is too old, what can be the trouble? Wouldn't the minister think I was wicked, though, if he knew I loved it like I do? I s'pose 'course he would, 'cause he's Aunt Mean's minister."

That Aunt Mean could have a minister who did not think just as she, never occurred to Chee.

"But if I could only make him promise not to tell, he couldn't--ever, 'cause he's a minister."

A few evenings longer she struggled on. The same discordant tones were the only result. One night the horrible sounds were more than she could bear. With a shiver, she put away the naughty fiddle. Baffled and broken-hearted, she crept down to her room. "What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"

Worn out, she threw herself on the floor, and did something very unusual for Chee--she began to cry. "Nobody can help me. I'm all 'lone. Nobody's here 'cept Our Father, I s'pose He's here, 'cause He's always everywhere; but I don't feel Him very much anywhere. Any way, He wouldn't make music for me. He used to for Musmi and his friends, but perhaps He isn't so fond of music as He used to be when they lived."

The thought of heavenly music fascinated her. "I wish I was an angel, I do. I'd dare ask Him then, any way. He used to do such things for people in the stories Daddy told me. But Mr. Green only says He can make us good and such things. I wonder," she said, slowly, trying to grasp a new idea, "I wonder if He couldn't make Mr. Green think the fiddle isn't wicked. If He could only do that so I knew Mr. Green wouldn't tell Aunt Mean, I could ask him about old fiddles being as good as new."

She still lay on the floor. Looking up at the faintly blinking stars, she murmured, "I don't believe it would be wrong to ask Our Father to try, 'cause Our Father and I know the fiddle isn't wicked, even if Aunt Mean and the minister don't. I am going to ask Him, any way, this very night."

This resolution seemed to comfort her. Beginning to undress, she tried to think out a prayer. Poor little Chee! She did not realize that as she had been lying on the floor, looking up at the stars, her heart had offered its petition. So she kept on framing a prayer that had already been heard.

At last, kneeling by her bed, she said over the carefully chosen words, "Our Father, who art in heaven and everywhere, I love Daddy Joe's fiddle very much. Better even than the real china tea-set that Cousin Gertrude sent me, or my string of beads. But I can't make music on it, I'm afraid it's too old. Mr. Green said it couldn't be, but I'm afraid I didn't understand him right. I want to ask him. Can't Thou make him not call me wicked, nor Daddy Joe, nor ever tell Aunt Mean, 'cause Thou knows how mad she'd be." Chee paused. This was the prayer she had planned, but something seemed lacking. After a moment she added, "And if Thou do, I'll do something for Thee sometime, only I can't think of anything now. Thy kingdom come. And finally save us. Amen."

Next day Chee plucked up courage and said, "Aunt Mean, please may I pick a bunch of white peonies and carry'em down to Mrs. Green?" Aunt Mean was straightening the rag-carpet rugs on the kitchen floor. "Take hold the end of this mat, Chee. Well, I don't know, seems like you wanted to be on the go the hull time. Only last week you rode over to the 'Corners' with your uncle, and 'tain't a month since you was took to a reg'ler concert--in the town hall, too. But I don't know but you might as well go, an' stop on the way an' ask Mis' Snow for that apern pat'en she said she'd just's liev I took."

"Yes'um," and Chee bounded away to gather her flowers.

"Beats all, that child does, still's a mouse inside, wild's a deer the minute she's out." This had been spoken to a neighbor who had "jest dropped in a minute."

"Well, I s'pose it's her Injun blood, isn't it?" was the reply. "What a worry she must be to you, Miss Almeana. She's well brung up, though, if she is half savage, I will say that."

"Poor Joe's runnin' off an' marryin' was a dretful thing," stated Aunt Mean, "dretful for him, and dretful for us."

"No doubt she was purty, and I s'pose findin' she'd lived so long with a white family made some difference," the neighbor remarked. There was a shadow of romance about her nature; there was not even that about Aunt Mean's.

"It was better'n though he'd found her naked in a wigwam, but 'twas bad 'nough," dryly returned poor Joe's sister.

"Prob'ly the greatest attraction was her voice. It must have been purty hard on so good Meth'dist people as you an' Reuben be, to have one of your own kin go roun' fiddlin' fer shows with an Injun singin' woman fer his wife."

Miss Almeana did not consider it proper to tell what an affliction this had been to her, but with a clear conscience she told, for at least the fiftieth time, how Reuben "took on." After that came poor brother Joe's taking on; how, when his wife died, he left his profession to wander about the world, clinging to his baby girl for comfort in his loneliness; how, at last, he came back to the old homestead, sick--body and heart. "He only lived a couple o' years longer, and most o' that time he set round with the young'n in his arms," went on Aunt Mean.

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