"_I_ call them so,--certainly,--_I_ do."
Only George Olver turned a sober, reassuring face to the blushing
Cradlebow.
"Give us a tune, Lutie," said he. "Lord, _I'd_ laugh if I could get the
music out o' them strings that you can."
The Cradlebow sat down, drew his bow across the strings with a full,
quivering, premonitory touch, and, straightway, the fiddle began to talk
to him as though they two were friends alone together in the room. How
it played for him,--the fiddle--as though it were morning. How it
shouted, laughed, ran with him in a world of sunshine and tossing
blossoms!
How it hoped for him, swelling out in grander strains, wild with
exultation, tremulous with passion!
How it mourned for him, with dying, sweet despair, until one almost saw
the night fall on the water, and the lone sea-birds flying, and heard the
desolate shrieking of the wind along the shore.
I heard a real sob near me, and looking up saw the tears rolling down
Harvey's rosy cheeks.
It was in the midst of a simple melody,--I think it was the "Sweet
By-and-By"--the player stopped and turned suddenly pale.
"That was a new string, too!" he said; "and only half tight.
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