“Queer sort of chap that Fiddle-John is,” said the men, when Fiddle-John went by.
“Quaint sort o’ cr’atur’ is Fiddle-John,” echoed the women; “not much in the providin’ line.”
“A singular individual is that Violin-John,” said the parson; “I can never make up my mind whether he is a worthless scamp or a man of genius.” “Possibly both,” suggested the parson’s wife. “Apartments to let,” remarked the daughter, tapping her forehead significantly.
“Hurrah! There is Fiddle-John,” cried the children, flocking delightedly about him, clinging to his arms, his legs, and his coat-tails. “Sing us a song, Fiddle-John! Tell us a story!”
Then Fiddle-John would seat himself on a stone at the road-side, while the children nestled about him; and he would tell them stories about knights and ladies, and ogres, and princesses, and all sorts of marvellous things.
“Worthless fellow, that Fiddle-John,” said the passers-by; “there he sits in the middle of the day talking nonsense to the children, when he ought to be working for the support of his family.”
It was perfectly true; Fiddle-John ought to have been working. He would readily have admitted that himself. He was well aware that his wife, Ingeborg, was at home, working like a trooper to keep the family from starving. But then, somehow, Fiddle-John had no taste for work, while Ingeborg had. He much preferred singing songs and telling stories. And a very pretty picture he made, as he sat there at the roadside, with his handsome, gentle face, his large blue eyes, and his wavy blond hair, and the children nestling about him, listening in wide-eyed wonder. There was something very attractive about his face, with its mild, melancholy smile, and a sort of diffident, questioning look in the eyes. He had an odd habit of opening his mouth several times before he spoke, and then, possibly, if his questioner’s face did not please him, he would go away, having said nothing. And, after all, it was diffidence and not insolence which prompted this action. It would never have occurred to Fiddle-John to take a critical view of anybody; he approved of all humanity in general, only he had an intuitive suspicion when anyone was making fun of him, and in such cases he found safety only in flight and silence.
By profession Fiddle-John was a ballad-singer; a queer profession, you will say, but nevertheless one which in Norway enjoys a certain recognition. He had a voice which the angels might have envied him—a clear and sweet tenor which rang through the depths of the listener’s soul. Hearing that voice, it was impossible not to stay and listen. The deputy sheriff, who once came to arrest Fiddle-John for vagrancy, when Fiddle-John began to sing, sat and cried. It came over him so “sorter queer,” he said. The parson, who had made up his mind to give Fiddle-John a thundering reproof for neglect of his family, the first time he should catch him, quite forgot his sinister purpose when, one day, he saw the ballad-singer seated under a large tree, with a dozen children climbing over him, and, with rollicking laughter, tumbling and rolling about him. And when Fiddle-John, having quieted his audience, took two little girls on his lap, while the boys scrambled and fought for the places nearest to him, the parson could not for the life of him recall the harsh things he had meant to say to Fiddle-John. The fact was—though, of course, it is scarcely fair to tell—the ballad which Fiddle-John sang to the children reminded the parson of the time (now long ago) when he was paying court to Mrs. Parson, and sometimes, on slight provocation, dropped into poetry.
“Thy cheeks are like the red, red rose,
Thy hands are like the lily.”