“Greatest fiddler I ever saw, an’ I guess the greatest ’ne thet enybody else ever saw,” exclaimed Fen Green.
Sometimes the old fiddler went home with a farmer of the hills for the night. On the morning he would go with the others to the field, and pay for his keep with the hoe. Another night he went with the blacksmith and made himself “handy” with the milking and other chore work, as pay for his night’s lodging. He was always happy, lodged with all, made a good workman at whatever was needed to be done, and, best of all, he could always be depended upon to play the fiddle, and to play the very tune that each individual liked best.
Bull Jones looked to be a man of some fifty years. He wore a grey beard, a suit of well-worn clothes with patches, and chewed tobacco and “swapped” with the boys. Bull Jones, the fiddler, was soon in great demand in the settlement. The fact is, that he had not been in the neighborhood a fortnight until he had more invitations to “stay all night” than he was able to fill for months.
On rainy days the fiddler took his place on the bag of coffee in the store and played the whole day through. Those were great days for the folks of Blood Camp. Even old Jase Dillenburger would hang about and whittle on a pine stick and enjoy the music with the others. Then, too, perchance, Miss Emeline Hobbs would come into the store when some such tune as “Sourwood Mountain” had begun, and would fain have thumped her wooden peg against the floor a few times out of sheer delight, had not she recalled that she was the superintendent of the Sunday-school and thereby the leader and example of the community.
Winter had come again, and Emeline Hobbs longed for the day when Paul Waffington would return, that she might tell him that she had “held out” in the matter of the Sunday-school. The expected time of his visit was passing by, and hope gave way to fear and she gave it up.
“I’ve give him out,” she said as she sat down. “Don’t think he’s comin’ back. I’ve ’splained every Scripture over four times—every one that I can think of, an’ I jist don’t know no more (but mind that you don’t tell anybody that I said so, Aunt Mina). I was athinken’ that I’d begin on Jonah next Sunday, if he didn’t come. I need a new start, somehow. If I just had a new start! I could run fine for ’nother year, if I just had a new start!”
“Now, Miss Emeline, doan’t you pester yo’self ’bout ’im comin’ anymo’. He’s acomin’. He’s acomin’ whin he said he would. He’ll be he’ar an’ do’an you bothar ’bout it any mo’. Lordy bless yo’, honey, dat man is a plum po’re gentleman, he is. Yo’ jist go on holden’ dat Sunday-skule an’ akeepin’ it agoin’. An’ my o’le black man, Laz, he’ll keep yo’ fires agoin’ jes’ like he promi’se.”
It was the voice of good Aunt Mina, the old black woman of the village.
“But he ain’t acomin’, taint no use,” persisted Emeline.
“Now, honey, yo’ jes lis’en he’ar. Yo’ go right on an’ tell ’em Jonah next Sunday. Dat’s good. I like dat m’self. I tell yo’ he’s acomin’. Here, Laz, yo’ poke de fire an’ put on some mo’ bark. Jis’ fo’ mo’ sheets an’ three dresses, an’ I’ll git yo’ supper, Laz—best o’le negger man ebber lived! Yess’um I’ll have yo’ iron’on’ done by fo’ o’clock fo’ yo’, Miss Emeline, I’ll have it done by dat time sure. Now he’s acomin’, an’ do’an yo’ pester yo’self ’bout it no mo’.”