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.
(Nightcaps were still useful to Miss Almeana.) 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.