DADDY JOE’S FIDDLECHAPTER I.
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.”
The child made no reply. She had nothing to say. Older people than Chee havelearnedto be silent; in her case, lessons had been unnecessary. Softly closing her chamber door, Chee blew out the little flame that had lighted her way up the creaking stairs. Instead of goingstraight to sleep, she sat down by the open window and began to unbraid her long, stiff hair. Impatiently shestopped, and clenched her brown hands. Her cheeks burned as she broke out in bitter whispers, “Oh, the music! The music! And Aunt Mean called it wicked. It wasn’t wicked. It was lovely. It made me want to fly right up to heaven. Guess things that make you feel that way aren’t wicked. She couldn’t have heard it much,” continued the child, excitedly. “She was watching the people in front of us, and ’zaminin’ their clothes. Told Uncle Reuben how many different kinds of stuffs were on Mrs. Snow’s bonnet; and that beautiful, beautiful song going on all the while. It wasn’t wicked! The choir at church isn’t wicked, and this is fifty times nicer. ’Sides—” Her hands dropped limply to her lap. Her eyes lifted from their watch down the road which lay white and smooth in the moonlight, the shadows of the trees crouching dark on either side. Gazing up at the stars she continued, tenderly, “My Daddy Joe made music on one. He called it his ‘dear old fiddle,’ he loved it so. No, it can’t be wicked.”
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 Meanknew, 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. Thebeauty 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.