We listened again and heard Hail Columbia! Happy Land! played in first-rate style.
"That's fine," said I.
"Fine as silk, Colonel, and a leetle finer," said another; "but hark! the tune is changed."
We listened again, and the musician struck up in a brisk and lively manner, Over the Water to Charlie.
"That's mighty mysterious," said one of my friends.
"Can't cipher it out nohow," said another.
"A notch beyant my measure," said a third.
"Then let's see what it is," said I, and off we dashed at a rapid gait.
As we approached the river, we saw to the right of the road a new clearing on a hill, from which several men were running down toward the river like wild Indians. There appeared no time to be lost, so we all cut ahead for the crossing. All this time the music kept growing stronger and stronger, every note distinctly saying, Over the Water to Charlie.
When we reached the crossing, we were astonished to see a man seated in a sulky in the middle of the river and playing for his life on a fiddle. The horse was up to his middle in water, and it seemed as if the flimsy vehicle was ready to be swept away by the current. Still the fiddler fiddled on composedly as if his life had been insured. We thought he was mad, and shouted to him. He heard us and stopped the music.