"
"Oh, gosh! he don't want to hear me play," pr~ tested William.
"He's heard s' many fiddlers."
"Fiddlers! I've heard a thousand violinists, but not fiddlers. Come,
give us 'Honest John.'"
William took the fiddle in his work-calloused and crooked hands
and began tuning it. The group at the kitchen door turned to listen,
their faces lighting up a little. Rose tried to get a set on the floor.
"Oh, good land!" said some. "We're all tuckered out. What makes
you so anxious?"
"She wants a chance to dance with the New Yorker."
"That's it exactly," Rose admitted.
"Wal, if you'd churned and mopped and cooked for hayin' hands as
I have today, you wouldn't be so full o' nonsense."
"Oh, bother! Life's short. Come quick, get Bettie out. Come, Wes,
never mind your hobbyhorse."
By incredible exertion she got a set on the floor, and William got
the fiddle in tune. Howard looked across at Wesley, and thought
the change in him splendidly dramatic. His face had lighted up into
a kind of deprecating, boyish smile. Rose could do anything with
him.
William played some of the old tunes that had a thou-sand
associated memories in Howard's brain, memories of harvest
moons, of melon feasts, and of clear, cold winter nights.
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