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.
CHAPTER
SIXTH