_CORN-STALK FIDDLES_
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It is a merit of our climate that at no time of the year are we, as
children, shut out from healthy out-door pleasure. There are shady nooks
along our creeks and rivers and delightful old mill-ponds wherein we may
bathe in midsummer, and there are acres of glassy ice over which to
skate in midwinter. Spring and autumn are too full of fun to
particularize, the average day being available for scores of methods
whereby to make life a treasure beyond compare, spending it, to the mind
of a boy, in that most rational way, having sport. I do not know why we
always played marbles at one time of the year and flew our kites at
another: this is for the folk-lore clubs to fathom. Suffice it, that
there has been for centuries a time for every out-door amusement as
fixed as the phases of the moon. So much for the sport common to all
boys. And now a word concerning an old-time musical instrument that may
be now quite out of date,—the corn-stalk fiddle.
This very primitive musical instrument is associated with the dreamy
Indian-summer days of late November. Then it discoursed delicious music,
but at other times it would have been “out of tune and harsh.” Did the
Indians give the secret to the children of our colonial forefathers? It
would be a pleasing thought whenever the toy comes to mind, as the mere
suggestion is a pleasant fancy.
The husking over, the corn-stalks carted and stored in a huge rick by
the barn-yard, the apples gathered, the winter wood cut, and then the
long quiet, with almost nothing to do. Such was the routine when I was a
boy, and if the uncertain, dreamy days would only come, there was sure
to be a short round of pleasure wherein the fiddle figured more
prominently than all else.
It was no small part of the fun to see Billy make a fiddle; it was such
a curious combination of mummery and skill. Having whetted his keen,
old-fashioned Barlow knife on the toe of his boot, he would flourish it
above his head with a whoop as though he was looking for an enemy
instead of a corn-stalk. Finding one that was glossy and long enough
between the joints, he would press it gently between his lips, trying
the several sections, and then selecting the longest and most glossy
one. So much of the proceeding was for our benefit, as the cunning old
fellow well knew that it added to his importance in our eyes.
What followed was skill. Having cut off the stalk above and below the
ring-like joints, he had now a convenient piece about eight or ten
inches in length. This he warmed by rubbing it violently with the palm
of his hand, and then placing the point of the knife as near the joint
as practicable, he drew it quickly down to the next joint or lower end.
It must be a straight incision, and Billy seldom failed to make it so. A
parallel one was then made, not more than one-sixteenth of an inch
distant. A space of twice this width was left, and two or three more
strings were made in the same manner. These were freed of the pith
adhering to their under sides, and held up by little wooden “bridges,”
one at each end. The bow was similarly fashioned, but was made of a more
slender section of corn-stalk and had but two strings.
It was indeed surprising how available this crude production proved as a
musical instrument. Youth and the environment counted for a great deal,
of course, and my Quaker surroundings forbidding music, it was a sweeter
joy because a stolen one.
I can picture days of forty years ago as distinctly as though a matter
of the present. My cousin and myself, with Black Billy, would often
steal away and carry with us one of the smaller barn doors. This we
would place in a sunny nook on the south side of the stalk-rick, and
while the fiddle was being made, would part with our jackets that we
might dance the better. Billy was soon ready, and with what a joyful
grin, rolling of his huge black eyes, and vigorous contortion of the
whole body would our faithful friend draw from the corn-stalk every note
of many a quaint old tune! And how we danced! For many a year after the
old door showed the nail-marks of our heavily-heeled shoes where we had
brought them down with a vigor that often roused the energy of old
Billy, until he, too, would stand up and execute a marvellous _pas
seul_. Then, tired out, we would rest in niches in the stalk-rick, and
Billy would play such familiar airs as had penetrated even into the
quiet of Quakerdom. It was no mere imitation of the music, but the thing
itself; and it would be an hour or more before the fiddle’s strings had
lost their tension, the silicious covering had worn away, and the sweet
sounds ceased.
Almost the last of my November afternoons passed in this way had a
somewhat dramatic ending. The fiddle was one of more than ordinary
excellence. In the height of our fun I spied the brim of my
grandfather’s hat extending an inch or two around the corner. I gave no
sign, but danced more vigorously than ever, and as the music and dancing
became more fast and furious the crown of his stiff hat appeared, and
then my grandfather’s face. His countenance was a study. Whether to give
the alarm and run or to remain was the decision of an instant. I gave no
sign, but kept one eye on him. “Faster!” I cried to Billy, and, to my
complete astonishment, the hat moved rapidly up and down. Grandfather
was keeping time! “Faster!” I cried again, and the music was now a
shrieking medley, and the broad-brimmed hat vibrated wonderfully fast.
It was too much. I gave a wild yell and darted off. Circling the barn
and stalk-rick, I entered the front yard with a flushed but innocent
face, and met grandpa. He, too, had an innocent, far-away look, but his
hat was resting on the back of his head and his checks were streaming
with perspiration, and, best of all, he did not seem to know it.
“Grandpa,” I asked at the supper-table that evening, “does thee know why
it is that savage races are so given to dancing?”
"Charles," he replied, gravely, and nothing more was said.
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