DADDY JOE’S FIDDLE
[Illustration: “CHEE’S FACE GLOWED. SHE WOULD MAKE MUSIC FOR HERSELF”]
_The_
EDITHA SERIES
DADDY JOE’S
FIDDLE
By
FAITH BICKFORD
With Illustrations by
EDITH FRANCIS FOSTER
[Illustration]
H. M. CALDWELL CO.
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK & BOSTON
_Copyright, 1903_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“CHEE’S FACE GLOWED. SHE WOULD MAKE MUSIC
FOR HERSELF” (_Page 17_) _Frontispiece_
“‘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
CHAPTER I.
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
have _learned_ to 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 going _straight
to sleep_, she sat down by the open window and began to unbraid her
long, stiff hair. Impatiently she stopped, 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 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.