  When my years numbered less than ten, I stayed with an uncle and aunt now and then, Who lived a few miles from our own door. Now when I think of those days of yore, When I lingered around the cabin door, In rapture listening to the violin, Held under our old black man’s chin; And its melody did my young heart win, Recollection goes back to my violin. This old fiddle came to me in a trade, That I with our work-hand made; And I learned to play for the serenade. I rosined my bow and handled it too, And loved this fiddle the whole day through. I played it nights before I went to sleep; Rolled it in flannel its tone to keep; Put it in the box which I did make; And took it out mornings soon as I’d wake. My aunt, who lived at the house where I went, With whom I stayed and many hours spent Was of the old school in the ideas she had; The most things I thought good she deemed bad. A deck of cards would have made her collapse; And for amusements now offered chaps, They’d been abomination in her very sight; The fiddle she thought her soul would blight. And even the box it was carried in, Was contaminated with the ghost of the violin. This vile thing was played for the dance, And that made it the horror of my aunt’s. Of all this I was then in ignorant bliss. So feeling good, I did not want to miss The chance to show my aunt how I did play On my fine instrument with much display. So carefully boxing it up, I took it to stay At the home of my aunt, to whom I’d show My performance with the fiddle and bow. When I arrived she greeted me before she did see, What was under the seat in the buggy with me. When I pulled it out I plainly saw A cloud come over her as she stood in awe. She did not at that time speak her full mind But in memory lingering now I find She said to herself something or other To the effect that my father and mother, Who were her sister, and in law her brother, Didn’t have the same care for their child, As she did for hers, or else how could they defile A little boy like me with such a tool of evil Specially devoted to sin and the service of the devil. I took my poor fiddle and lugged it to my room, Where I did not string it up so very soon. But on one rainy day I took it out to play Strains of old hymns that in my memory lay. The thunder’s crash and the lightning’s play Could not from my aunt keep away The penetrating sound my violin bore, Only a moment and she was at my door. I saw in horror my aunt stand before, With uplifted hands as her eyes bore, Riveting me in silence to the floor. The anger, pity, grief, fear and pain In her face made upon me its lasting stain. In words not spoken as much as shrieked, She revealed why her face was streaked With the lines I saw when she appeared: “Put that horrid thing away,” she whispered; “Put it in the back closet and lock the door.” She insisted: “Hide it quick, I implore; The Lord in his wrath will blow the house o’er! Don’t you know better than to tempt God in that way, While the lightning and thunder His power display?” I admit that I did not know, but in my heart, Then tender in years, was lodged a dart It took years to remove; even now when I start Upon my new violin some music to play I wonder sometimes if in some mysterious way There is not lurking in it some demon still, Its tones and notes sound so awfully shrill. I would not for a single moment profane The memory of my dear aunt I still retain, Nor at her sincere beliefs cast one single slur. I write here what did actually occur. A coolness between me and the fiddle I love Sprang up from the incident related above, That lasted all the days of my youth When I might have learned the violin in truth; That instrument none can ever master, Who does not cling to it in every disaster.
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