H. M. CALDWELL CO.
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK & BOSTON
Copyright, 1903
By Dana Estes & Company
All rights reserved
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
| PAGE | |
| “Chee’s face glowed. She would make musicfor herself” (Page [17]) | [ Frontispiece] |
| “‘This is a ’portant matter. “Guess so” won’tdo. Say “yes,” please’” | [ 32] |
| “‘Shall I ask Our Father?’” | [ 51] |
| “She stood a moment in meditation, the violinalready under her chin” | [ 71] |
| “‘I’ve saved you from the great Wi-will-mecq’” | [ 91] |
| “It was as though all the plaintive story ofa dying race had been stored in thatlittle red case” | [ 97] |
DADDY JOE’S FIDDLE
CHAPTER I.
A TALL clock in the hall was striking eleven. A tired, but very wide-awake, little girl was climbing the stairs. “Land sakes, child! Hear that? Go straight to sleep now. It’s wicked for grown folks to be up this time of night, say nothing of young ’uns.”
The child made no reply. She had nothing to say. Older people than Chee have learned to be silent; in her case, lessons had been unnecessary. Softly closing her chamber door, Chee blew out the little flame that had lighted her way up the creaking stairs. Instead of going straight to sleep, she sat down by the open window and began to unbraid her long, stiff hair. Impatiently she stopped, and clenched her brown hands. Her cheeks burned as she broke out in bitter whispers, “Oh, the music! The music! And Aunt Mean called it wicked. It wasn’t wicked. It was lovely. It made me want to fly right up to heaven. Guess things that make you feel that way aren’t wicked. She couldn’t have heard it much,” continued the child, excitedly. “She was watching the people in front of us, and ’zaminin’ their clothes. Told Uncle Reuben how many different kinds of stuffs were on Mrs. Snow’s bonnet; and that beautiful, beautiful song going on all the while. It wasn’t wicked! The choir at church isn’t wicked, and this is fifty times nicer. ’Sides—” Her hands dropped limply to her lap. Her eyes lifted from their watch down the road which lay white and smooth in the moonlight, the shadows of the trees crouching dark on either side. Gazing up at the stars she continued, tenderly, “My Daddy Joe made music on one. He called it his ‘dear old fiddle,’ he loved it so. No, it can’t be wicked.”