"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW." 9
Cherish the Little Ones 19
Fat Men and Bald-Headed Men 22
The Poet Laureate of Music 23
The Convict and His Fiddle 25
A Vision of The Old Field School 27
The Quilting and the Old Virginia Reel 36
The Candy Pulling 44
The Banquet 48
There is Music All Around Us 53
The Two Columns. 61
There is a Melody for Every Ear 63
Music is the Wine of the Soul 66
The Old Time Singing School 72
The Grand Opera 78
Music 80
"THE PARADISE OF FOOLS." 83
The Paradise of Childhood 90
The Paradise of the Barefooted Boy 98
The Paradise of Youth 104
The Paradise of Home 112
Bachelor and Widower 117
Phantoms 119
The False Ideal 121
The Circus in the Mountains 123
The Phantom of Fortune 128
Clocks 130
The Panic 133
Bunk City 135
Your Uncle 137
Fools 140
Blotted Pictures 143
"VISIONS AND DREAMS." 147
The Happy Long Ago 151
Dreams of the Years to Come 160
From the Cave-man to the Kiss-o-phone 169
Dreams 175
Visions of Departed Glory 178
Nature's Musicians 181
Preacher's Paradise 185
Brother Estep and the Trumpet 189
"Wamper-jaw" at the Jollification 190
The Tintinnabulation of the Dinner Bells 193
Phantoms of the Wine Cup 196
The Missing Link 197
Nightmare 198
Infidelity 200
The Dream of God 201
"THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW."
[Illustration]
I heard a great master play on the wondrous violin; his bow quivered
like the wing of a bird; in every quiver there was a melody, and every
melody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered by
human tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought I
fell asleep under its power, and was rapt into the realm of visions and
dreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and through the rifted
shadows in my dream I thought I saw old ocean lashed to fury. The wing
of the storm-god brooded above it, dark and lowering with night and
tempest and war. I heard the shriek of the angry hurricane, the loud
rattling musketry of rain, and hail, and the louder and deadlier crash and
roar of the red artillery on high. Its rumbling batteries, unlimbered on
the vapory heights and manned by the fiery gunners of the storm, boomed
their volleying thunders to the terrible rythm of the strife below. And
in every stroke of the bow fierce lightnings leaped down from their dark
pavilions of cloud, and, like armed angels of light, flashed their
trenchant blades among the phantom squadrons marshalling for battle on
the field of the deep. I heard the bugle blast and battle cry of the
charging winds, wild and exultant, and then I saw the billowy monsters
rise, like an army of Titans, to scale and carry the hostile heights of
heaven. Assailing again and again, as often hurled back headlong into
the ocean's abyss, they rolled, and surged, and writhed, and raged, till
the affrighted earth trembled at the uproar of the warring elements.
I saw the awful majesty and might of Jehovah flying on the wings of
the tempest, planting his footsteps on the trackless deep, veiled in
darkness and in clouds. There was a shifting of the bow; the storm died
away in the distance, and the morning broke in floods of glory. Then the
violin revived and poured out its sweetest soul. In its music I heard
the rustle of a thousand joyous wings, and a burst of song from a
thousand joyous throats. Mockingbirds and linnets thrilled the glad
air with warblings; gold finches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled their
happiest tunes; and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle that
rocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows and the
scattered covey's piping call; I heard the robin's gay whistle, the
croaking of crows, the scolding of blue-jays, and the melancholy cooing
of a dove. The swaying tree-tops seemed vocal with bird-song while he
played, and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus. Then
the violin sounded the hunter's horn, and the deep-mouthed pack of fox
hounds opened loud and wild, far in the ringing woods, and it was like
the music of a hundred chiming bells. There was a tremor of the bow,
and I heard a flute play, and a harp, and a golden-mouthed cornet;
I heard the mirthful babble of happy voices, and peals of laughter
ringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I saw a vision of snowy
arms, voluptuous forms, and light fantastic slippered feet, all whirling
and floating in the mazes of the misty dance. The flying fingers now
tripped upon the trembling strings like fairy-feet dancing on the
nodding violets, and the music glided into a still sweeter strain.
The violin told a story of human life. Two lovers strayed beneath the
elms and oaks, and down by the river side, where daffodils and pansies
bend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom of
incense-breathing bowers, under the soothing sound of humming bees and
splashing waters, there, the old, old story, so old and yet so new,
conceived in heaven, first told in Eden and then handed down through
all the ages, was told over and over again. Ah, those downward drooping
eyes, that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submission
pressed, that heaving breast, that fluttering heart, that whispered
"yes," wherein a heaven lies--how well they told of victory won and
paradise regained! And then he swung her in a grapevine swing. Young
man, if you want to win her, wander with her amid the elms and oaks,
and swing her in a grapevine swing.
"Swinging in the grapevine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing;
I dream and sigh for the days gone by,
Swinging in the grapevine swing."
[Illustration: "SWINGING IN THE GRAPEVINE SWING."]
But swiftly the tides of music run, and swiftly speed the hours;
Life's pleasures end when scarce begun, e'en as the summer flowers.
The violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a
cottage amid the elms and oaks and a little curly-head toddled at the
door; I saw a happy husband and father return from his labors in the
evening and kiss his happy wife and frolic with his baby. The purple
glow now faded from the Western skies; the flowers closed their petals
in the dewy slumbers of the night; every wing was folded in the bower;
every voice was hushed; the full-orbed moon poured silver from the East,
and God's eternal jewels flashed on the brow of night. The scene changed
again while the great master played, and at midnight's holy hour, in the
light of a lamp dimly burning, clad in his long, white mother-hubbard,
I saw the disconsolate victim of love's young dream nervously walking
the floor, in his bosom an aching heart, in his arms the squalling baby.
On the drowsy air, like the sad wails of a lost spirit, fell his woeful
voice singing:
[Illustration: (Sheet Music)]
With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by,
Danc-ing the ba-by ev-er so high; with my
La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye ba-by
Mam-ma will come to you bye and bye.
It was a battle with king colic. But this ancient invader of the empire
of babyhood had sounded a precipitate retreat; the curly head had fallen
over on the paternal shoulder; the tear-stained little face was almost
calm in repose, when down went a naked heel square on an inverted tack.
Over went the work table; down came the work basket, scissors and all;
up went the heel with the tack sticking in it, and the hero of the
daffodils and pansies, with a yell like the Indian war-whoop, and with
his mother-hubbard now floating at half mast, hopped in agony to a lounge
in the rear.
[Illustration: A BATTLE WITH KING COLIC.]
There was "weeping and gnashing of teeth;" there were hoarse mutterings;
there was an angry shake of the screaming baby, which he had awakened
again. Then I heard an explosion of wrath from the warm blankets of the
conjugal couch, eloquent with the music of "how dare you shake my little
baby that way!!!! I'll tell pa to-morrow!" which instantly brought the
trained husband into line again, singing:
"La-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, dancing the baby ever so high,
With my la-e, lo-e, hush-a-bye baby, mamma will come to you bye and bye."
The paregoric period of life is full of spoons and midnight squalls, but
what is home without a baby?
The bow now brooded like a gentle spirit over the violin, and the music
eddied into a mournful tone; another year intervened; a little coffin
sat by an empty cradle; the prints of baby fingers were on the window
panes; the toys were scattered on the floor; the lullaby was hushed; the
sobs and cries, the mirth and mischief, and the tireless little feet
were no longer in the way to vex and worry. Sunny curls drooped above
eyelids that were closed forever; two little cheeks were bloodless and
cold, and two little dimpled hands were folded upon a motionless breast.
The vibrant instrument sighed and wept; it rang the church bell's knell;
and the second story of life, which is the sequel to the first, was told.
Then I caught glimpses of a half-veiled paradise and a sweet breath from
its flowers; I saw the hazy stretches of its landscapes, beautiful and
gorgeous as Mahomet's vision of heaven; I heard the faint swells of its
distant music and saw the flash of white wings that never weary, wafting
to the bosom of God an infant spirit; a string snapped; the music ended;
my vision vanished.
The old Master is dead, but his music will live forever.