  By FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE. When I was quite a tiny mite, And life a joyful ditty, I used to know a poor old wight Who fiddled through the city. Alas! it’s thirty years ago— Time is so quaint and flighty! And now I’ve mites myself, you know, And not so very mighty. And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp; He’s guessed the awful riddle, And, haply, got a golden harp In place of that old fiddle. And yet, methinks, I see him now— So clear the memory lingers— His long grey hair, his puckered brow, His trembling, grimy fingers, The comforter that dangled down Beyond his waist a long way, The beaver hat with battered crown, He’d pause to brush—the wrong way, The brown surtout that still could brag Its buttons down the middle, And, crowning all, the greenish bag That held the sacred fiddle. Two tunes he played, and only two, One over, one beginning; “God Save the Queen’s” collapse we knew Was “Kitty Clover’s” inning. How startlingly the bow behaved— Curveted, jerked, and bounded— The while our gracious queen was saved, And knavish tricks confounded! And oh! the helpless, hopeless woe, Brimful and running over, In (very slow) the o—o—oh Of bothering Kitty Clover! And so he’d jerk and file and squeak Like twenty thousand hinges, While every sympathetic cheek Was racked with shoots and twinges. The lawyer left his lease or will, The workman stopped his hammer, The druggist ceased to roll the pill, And ran to calm the clamor. From doors and windows jingled down A dancing shower of copper, Accompanied by many a frown, And sometimes speech improper. He gathered up the grudging dole, And sought a different station, But always with a bitter soul, And deep humiliation. For what though music win you pence, If praise it fail to win you? If fees are paid to hurry hence, And never to continue? “Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes say To any youthful scholar; “They’d rather grub for brass to-day, Than listen to Apoller.” And so with quaint, pathetic face, Aggrieved and disappointed, The minstrel moved from place to place, And mourned the times disjointed. His hat was browner than of yore, His grizzled head was greyer, And none had ever cried “Encore,” Or praised the poor old player. I came to feel (and was not wrong)— His day was nearly over— He’d not be bothered very long By cruel Kitty Clover. One day, within a shady square, Where people lounged or sat round, He’d played his second woeful air, And now he took the hat round. He met with many a gibe and grin, With coarser disaffection, The while he tottered out and in, Receiving the collection. At length he stopped, with downcast eye, Beneath a lime tree’s cover, Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy, Beside her handsome lover. Half hidden in her leafy place, The modest little sitter Just glanced into the fiddler’s face, And read his story bitter. Unskilled in life and worldly ways, By womanhood’s divining, She knew the minstrel’s soul for praise And sympathy was pining. Herself with all a heart could need, No dearest dream denied her, She felt her gentle spirit bleed For that poor wretch beside her. She hung her head a little while, Then, growing somewhat bolder, She rose, and with a blush and smile, Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder. “How charmingly you play,” she said. “How nice to be so clever! My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red) “Could sit entranced for ever. I’ve taken lessons—all in vain; My touch is simply hateful. Oh! if you’d play those tunes again, I’d be so very grateful.” He rosined up his rusty bow (His eyes were brimming over), Then (o—o—oh!) meandered slow Through endless “Kitty Clover.” He’d suffered many a cruel wrong Amid a sordid nation; He’d waited wearily and long— At last the compensation! What cared he now for snub and sneer From churlish fools around him? In those sweet eyes he saw a tear, And felt that fame had crowned him. And you, my friends, may laugh or frown, And still I’ll risk the saying, That angels stooped from glory down To hear the fiddler playing. And he that holds the golden pen, That chief of all the bright ones, Who registers the deeds of men, The wrong ones and the right ones— He oped the book, and did record A sweet and gracious deed there— A deed performed to Christ the Lord That he shall smile to read there. decorative line |
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