The Fiddler

The Fiddler

Dale Meador

© 2010 Dale Meador

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Second edition, March 2013

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Also by Dale Meador: Along Dusty Roads

Cover Illustration: Ronnie Waller

Author Photo: Sherry Massey

Every effort has been made to trace copyrights on materials included in this publication. If any copyrighted material has been included without permission and due acknowledgment, proper credit will be inserted in future printings after notice has been received.

About the Book:

THE FIDDLER is a work of fiction. However, the inspiration for this work is from a real fiddler, Calvin Cancel (Cantz) King, 1892 – 1967.

During the heyday of Red Boiling Springs, Mr. King, a fiddler, and a long time friend of my father, a tap-dancer, struck up a lasting friendship. After the hotel boom went bust, many of the musicians scattered to other venues and to conventional jobs, but even with numerous outside offers the fiddler was determined to remain and follow his craft in the upper Cumberland foothills.

Cancel King was a vagabond, the Johnny Appleseed of music, and an occasional visitor to my boyhood home. With his countless friends and bountiful talent, my father considered the fiddler a rich man. I can’t imagine anyone asking the ‘Vagabond’ to pay for a night’s lodging; but the fiddler considered a night of musical entertainment, plus tolerant instructions given to an eager youngster, ample payment for his brief stay.

The fiddler was his own man, and his successes would not have been considered as such by others. His home was the road; his possessions were on his back. His medium of exchange was the talented hands that carried the little red fiddle. To those who didn’t understand, he was a ne’er-do-well. But the wandering minstrel man was free, bound to his music and to the forces of nature’s elements.

It was a perplexing mystery for the fiddler. Tramping the back roads he never understood why he was alone, and of those he met along the way he never understood their hurry. He never understood why, at sunset, they would scuttle inside their dreary little dwellings and close out the wondrous displays of nighttime. And he wondered too if these good folk marveled at the spectacle of an approaching lightning storm crackling across a purple sky at the stroke of midnight.

Midnight or high noon, twilight or dawn, it all held a mystic air for the fiddler. To find peace a man must first find himself; and the fiddler knew he was at home. When he transposed this interpretation to the little red fiddle, you heard it too if you listened with your heart. The fiddler would say: happiness is external, but joy comes from within.

And the wayfaring fiddler, gracious for his short stay, would move on; the deliberate steps taking the frail old man and the little red fiddle to another table setting and night’s lodging.

When the fiddler stepped on the parting road and disappeared around the curve, the observer could only surmise of his destination. Perhaps his next port of call was select shelter underneath a secluded bridge where the peaceful lull of a trout-stream promised undisturbed rest and a long-standing promise of delectable dining.

Calvin Cancel King was a real man, and indeed, was a rich man; he remains a legend. Perhaps those he taught to love the stringed instruments remember him most, but surely he is missed most by the sighing wind, looking for his step; and by the murmuring brook and the mocking bird listening for the one who truly appreciated their song. And missed too by the honeysuckle and the wild flowers expectantly waiting by the side of the road, should the wayfaring fiddler pass their way again.

To my knowledge a headless man isn’t buried in the Bethany Cemetery, but the ‘King Of The Fiddlers’ has been at rest there since 1967.

The Author

The Fiddler

Table of Contents

About the Book

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Two

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Three

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

About the Author

Part One

Chapter One

Nightfall came quietly to the cornfield. The roasting ears and green fodder, bold and fresh with the morning sun, had become fast allies with the shades of night. And the golden tassels, their lofty treasure scattered by pollinating breezes, had found rest in the still of the evening. Along the eastern horizon a sprinkling of stars were emerging as darkness crept toward the splash of color hanging over the sunset. Across a wooded hollow a whippoorwill called and was answered from the next hill.

On the hillside road a teenage boy turned onto a path that led into the cornfield. The path opened between two cornrows, and with an encased violin in hand the boy set off through the maze of arching blades. The muted steps of bare feet on plowed ground and a rhythmic brushing of fodder cloaked the passage as nothing more than the wind. The Bethany Church was on the other side of the cornfield; it was Wednesday and rehearsal night for the choir.

Midway across the field the sound of music caught the youngster’s ear and he smiled and hastened his step. He came to a barbed wire fence that bordered the churchyard and there he stopped and wiped the dew from his face.

An assortment of farm wagons, buggies and saddle horses were scattered around the yard. A T-model Ford parked on the side of the road appeared forlorn and out of place. Except for the moon’s reflection on the windows and headlights, the black car had all but disappeared in the shadowy darkness.

A cemetery fanned out behind the church. Encircled by a stone fence, a pair of stately cedar trees like tall silent sentinels stood guard at the gate. In the milky glow of the low moon, a twilight pall had settled on the gravestones.

The fiddler studied the foreground. His destination was a honeysuckle thicket near the gate. A cemetery in the mystic hour of twilight can challenge the bravest heart, but with the onset of summer the youngster had become a rehearsal regular. And the festive air from a tinkling piano and the flickering lights on stained glass windows had kept the graveyard ghosts in check.

The piano introduced a song and prompted the youngster from his cover. He slipped underneath the bottom strand of barbed wire, and stooping low, moved behind a line of buggies. A horse nickered and shifted its feet. The fiddler dropped to the ground, and on hands and knees worked his way across the yard to the thicket. He pushed through a makeshift opening and was greeted by an aromatic mixture of honeysuckle and cedar. He breathed a sigh of relief and leaned heavily against the cedar tree.

A roosting cardinal disturbed by the intrusion fluttered suspiciously in the treetop. The fiddler held his breath and hoped the red bird wouldn’t fly away and alert some unwitting latecomer. Thankfully the cardinal decided not to challenge the owls and nighthawks and settled warily on his perch.

The choir started another song, and the fiddler searching for the tune softly dragged the bow across the strings. He locked onto the melody, and from a hiding place inside the honeysuckle thicket the strain of a violin drifted across the churchyard and became one with the voice of the Bethany Choir.

The song ended and Tyler Weldon smiled his approval. The song leader was devoted to music and enjoyed a glowing reputation throughout the singing community. Tapping his palm with a songbook, he drawled, That sure is fine singin’. Y’all had the harmony so tight in the chorus, why, seems I was hearin’ the sweet violins of heaven comin’ down.

An astounded choir member heartily agreed. Yeah, I heard that too!

A stout lady sitting next to an open window labored to her feet. Y’all didn’t hear violins comin’ down from heaven, her words were measured and slow, they’s somebody in the back yard sawin’ on a fiddle.

Realizing her audience expected some clarification, she stammered a little when she continued, I declare y’all may think I’m crazy but it’s been going on for weeks now. They’s a fiddler out there behind the fence playin’ right along with our singin’.

Why Miz Patrick, replied the song leader, it’s not like you to remain quiet. Why didn’t you say something?

I weren’t sure what it was myself ‘til tonight, answered Mrs. Patrick. Gran’ma always said that graveyard was ha’nted; it came to me that some poor lost soul was out there cryin’ in the dark. I weren’t gonna say a word ‘til y’all heard it too.

Could be a prankster, volunteered a man on the front row, somebody havin’ fun tryin’ to scare us.

Mrs. Patrick shook her head. I don’t think so. Pranksters shoot guns an’ firecrackers like they did last Halloween. I’m thinkin’ its Basil King’s boy. Sally was tellin’ me he got a fiddle for Christmas an’ said his playin’ is showin’ promise. Why I declare, Mr. Weldon, you said yourself it sounded like sweet violins comin’ down from heaven! A prankster couldn’t do that! I’m just thankful some of you heard it too. For a while there I thought I was losin’ my mind!

A relieved Mrs. Patrick unclasped her hands and sat down. Skipping choir practice had even crossed her mind, but with the confession she felt better and whispered as much to her friend.

A gentleman arose and addressed the assembly. Basil King is my cousin an’ a good man. Most of you know him; he’s the blacksmith an’ wagon builder what lives down on the creek. I’ll speak to him. He wouldn’t be pleased knowin’ his boy was comin’ around disturbin’ the peace.

The familiar nod of the director’s head preceded his reply. I appreciate the offer Mr. Gillham, but truth is our accompanist has paid us a nice compliment. Perhaps he should be encouraged. We should invite him inside; he may be a diamond in the rough.

That’s fine with me, replied Mr. Gillham. I’m agreed.

Then come lead a song or two, said Mr. Weldon, an’ I’ll step outside an’ look around. Maybe I can locate our backyard fiddler.

Tyler Weldon stood up from the piano. He picked up a flashlight and headed for the exit. As he moved through the doorway he heard Mr. Gillham say, How about ‘The Old Ship of Zion?’ Y’all turn to page forty-six.

‘The old ship was launched and a moment later the choir had her tossing on the briny deep. The young fiddler fumbled through a verse and chorus, but when the ship sailed into the second verse he had caught the tune. And tucked away inside his hiding place, the fiddler became intensely occupied with his musical expression.

Drawn by the strains of the violin, Tyler Weldon quietly moved across the yard and opened a peephole in the honeysuckle thicket. Then the moon, that reliable luminary and ally to those who seek in the night, slipped free from its cumulus cloak and exposed the furtive fiddler.

The accompanist sat with his back against the tree, and his feet were braced against the stone fence. His eyes were closed, and his mouth twitched as he struggled with the difficult phrasing of the choir. Then, absent the piano’s lead, the choir abruptly ended their song. Caught off guard by the abruptness, the youngster made a nice recovery and fiddled a crisp: ‘Shave And A Haircut, Two Bits.’

It was too much for the song leader. He had just heard an uplifting song rendered by an excellent choir accompanied by a pretty good fiddler. When the out of character fiddle piece tagged the time-honored old hymn, he gave out with a mighty whoop and fell to the ground in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Startled out of his wits, the fiddler broke from the thicket. The laughing man rose to a sitting position and turned on his flashlight. The light beam caught the streaking silhouette with fiddle in hand as it cleared the top strand of the barbed wire fence and vanished into the cornfield.

Tyler Weldon stood up and brushed the seat of his pants. He stepped around to the makeshift door and looked inside the hiding place. The spotlight struck a violin case and a bow lying at the base of the cedar tree. The bow was picked up and placed inside the case. Continuing the search, the song leader found two leather straps hanging on a nearby branch. He retrieved the straps, laid them inside the violin case, and snapped it shut. By force of habit, from boyhood ‘coon and ‘possum hunting excursions, he scanned the treetop and illuminated a roosting cardinal. The redbird stared into the bright light but didn’t fly away.

Tyler Weldon was steeped in thought when he came back inside the auditorium. Walking down the aisle, he added his voice to that of the choir. The song ended and he pointed the violin case toward Mrs. Patrick. In a feigned seriousness he drawled, Your graveyard ghost left this behind.

Yeah, yeah! Mrs. Patrick was beaming. Me an’ Cora saw him in the moonlight! We were lookin’ out the window, an’ he took out acrost the yard an’ jumped the fence. I said to Cora, ‘My! My! Look at that boy run!’ I declare, Mr. Weldon, you must have scared him half to death!

I’m sure he’ll survive, replied the smiling song leader, chances are we’ll see him again.

Tyler Weldon hadn’t lost his smile when he took his seat at the piano. He nodded to Mr. Gillham. You did a fine job leadin’ the choir. I’m thinkin’ next May when ‘Singin’ Convention Time’ comes around; some of the folks may accuse us of showin’ off. There’ something to be said about choral singin’ especially with violin accompaniment. But since our fiddler has left the premises, we’ll make do with this old ragged piano.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Patrick at the Bethany Church had correctly identified the churchyard fiddler. Named for a beloved president and a famous Rough Rider, Roosevelt Lincoln King was Basil and Sally’s eldest child.

Rosie, as he was called, was small for his fifteen years. The spurt of growth at puberty had helped, but unlike his father he would never be burly and robust. However, Rosie wasn’t frail or weak. Regular farm chores and rigorous duties in the blacksmith shop kept his wiry frame toned and sharp.

Rosie’s sandy hair was wavy to almost curly and often invited a second look from the female gender. But his pale blue eyes could turn cold and restive.

The coveted fiddle was a Christmas present and had come from that great mail order house in Chicago. The moment the postman delivered the much-awaited package, Rosie showed the prize to his parents and then ran all the way to the home of his Uncle Grady.

Once on a Saturday night, Grady Skeets, a fiddler of lofty repute, staggered happily home from a rowdy shindig and continued to fiddle into the wee hours of the morning. After many unsuccessful attempts to persuade her indefatigable husband to put the fiddle away and go to bed, Treeva, who was by no means a wilted violet, lovingly coaxed the fiddle from his fumbling fingers and slapped it hard against the back of his head. The innocent little instrument had played its last hoedown when on that sad occasion it flew into a hundred pieces.

In a deep sleep Grady settled onto the living room floor and the splintered fragments were swept up, including the bow, and tossed into the fire. An ancient violin case tucked underneath the bed, and an overlooked block of rosin on the fireplace mantle were the only related items that escaped the flames that eventful night.

The next morning, with his head still in a fog, Grady inquired as to the whereabouts of his fiddle. It’s gone to the devil! Treeva had informed him with emphasis. An’ if you bring another trouble-makin’ fiddle into this house, you can go to the devil too!

Rosie knew too well the story of his uncle’s fiddle and was a little nervous when he showed him the new one. Grady had laughed and explained that Treeva wasn’t angry with him, and that he’d be glad to show him the proper way to string and tune his fiddle.

Rosie was incredulous. You want me to spit where?

The tuning pegs, laughed Grady, they’re made of wood an’ need a little moisture so they’ll swell an’ hold. Calm down a little an’ don’t turn ‘em so fast, you’ll break a string.

Grady ran his hand along the fireplace mantle. He found the rosin and dropped it into Rosie’s shirt pocket. Rosin for your bow, he sighed. It’s something I don’t need. An’ there’s another thing you can use. Grady sprawled down on the floor and shoved a long arm underneath the bed. The arm searched and thumped and rattled and brought out a violin case covered with lint and spider webs.

Grady made a futile attempt to brush away the sticky residue before handing the case on to his nephew. This ol’ hard shell belonged to your gran’daddy. She’s old an’ frayed, but it’s good protection for your fiddle. An’, when you catch on a little, me an’ the boys will come around an’ see how you’re doing. But, bless me John Brown; unless things have changed, you’ll have to practice in the barn; home folks won’t let a body fiddle in the house!

Grady’s words were prophetic. Shortly thereafter a family consensus banned fiddle practice inside the house. And inside the barn the work mules and the buggy mare had their own way of complaining when the novice was scraping the bow across the strings. Only Ol’ Bossy, the milk cow took his fiddling with an air of nonchalance and would add an occasional low of her own.

The musical expressions that bubbled in the fiddler’s head were out of reach of his unskilled hands. But success belongs to determination, and proof that his fortunes were on the rise came from the enthusiastic audience that gathered regularly at the barn. Ben, Julie, and Cassie loved to tag along and dance improvised jigs as their brother scratched out lively tunes on the mail order fiddle.

Julie trilled, Make it sound like a train!

Rosie would tease his sister. You never heard a train whistle.

I don’t care, she would reply, I’ve seen pictures in the storybook.

And Rosie’s train whistle would screech like wet brakes on a wagon wheel.

Cluck like an ol’ hen. That was Ben’s request. A little envious of his older brother, Ben had aspirations of playing the harmonica.

Little Cassie didn’t care whether the hen clucked or the train whistled as long as the tempo fit her dance routines with Miz Molly the rag doll.

And now, due to the unfortunate turn of events, the fiddler was a fugitive in a dark cornfield. Tearing through the fodder escaping from the laughing apparition had inflicted numerous scrapes and scratches on his hands and face. He was out of breath, his legs felt like rubber, and then he remembered the stumped toe. Still, with all the troubles, he couldn’t shake Aunt Treeva’s harsh warning to her husband: Trouble-makin’ fiddle can go to the devil.

The throbbing toe was begging for attention. He sank to the earth and draped his foot across his knee. The toenail, hanging by a shred of skin, was dripping blood, and the cool night air caressing his backside affirmed a sizeable rip in the seat of his pants. The toenail was pressed back in place and wrapped with a handkerchief.

A passing cloud darkened the moon, and a gust of wind from the outflow rattled the fodder and swayed the tassels. The little wind trickled away and the fiddler cupped a hand over his ear and listened for the sound of pursuit. The choir had resumed rehearsal, and on a distant ridge a barking dog was challenging some intruder. Further assured by the trill and swell of night creatures and the gentle murmuring of fodder, the fiddler was certain now that he hadn’t been followed.

Assuming that his situation had improved, Rosie blew a sigh of relief and considered his plight. His bearings were still intact, but the hasty retreat had resulted in the loss of the fiddle bow and case. He shuddered with the idea of returning to the churchyard and facing the laughing apparition.

A sudden urge to move on shook the fiddler. The warning was ignored, and seeking comfort in the sound of his voice, he uttered just above his breath. A ghost don’t need a flashlight; that had to be a person. The diminishing pain in his toe further bolstered his confidence, and he raised his voice and spoke in a defiant tone. I’m most grown; I’m too old for ghost nonsense!

To dislodge the cobwebs in his brain, he vigorously shook his head and glanced at the sky. A few puffy clouds had pushed out the shrouded wisps of nightfall and a bright moon glow was on the cornfield.

The small voice was getting louder, and again it was ignored. Reluctantly, Rosie admitted that running from the church was a cowardly act. Under his breath he mumbled to himself, My heart was brave but my legs wouldn’t stand. The sound of his voice gained him a measure of self-respect and he continued, But if ghosts ain’t real, why is there so much talk about ‘em?

The fiddler rechecked the makeshift bandage; the two-mile homeward trek would be difficult. He cupped a hand over his ear; the choir was still singing, but the drone of night creatures had quieted. Behind him a fodder blade snapped; a chill ran up his spine and a knot formed in his stomach. He summoned his last thread of courage and turned toward the disturbance.

Rosie truly expected to see a floating apparition dressed in a flowing gown, but hardly an arm’s length away stood a large bobcat. Rosie’s breath stuck in his throat and he tried to raise his arm but it wouldn’t move. He thought he had died until he realized the thumping in his chest was his racing heart. Frozen to the ground, the fiddler stared into the bobcat’s eyes and waited for him to leap.

The stalker was much larger than Rosie had dared to imagine. His coat was tawny and sprinkled with blotchy spots. The oversized feet and long legs didn’t match the stocky body, and like any domestic cat his face was marked with a regular cast of whiskers. The tufts on his ears defined a clown face that seemingly softened the fierceness in his eyes. And underneath his ears blossomed a pair of mutton chop sideburns that tapered down to the bottom of his chin.

A patter of voices came from the church as singers exited the sanctuary and spilled into the churchyard. Amid the laughter and the bidding of goodnight, Rosie observed a pointed ear twist toward the sound of dispersing people. And then the Model T, given the departing right of way, whizzed and coughed and roared to life. Squealing through the gears, the black car sputtered onto the road and pulled away.

With the automobile out of mischief’s way, the teamsters turned to their charges. The sharp commands, clinking chains and slapping leather sounded across the cornfield as horse drawn conveyances rolled out and began the pull for home.

The distraction was a welcome interlude but it didn’t last. The creak and rattle of the last wagon faded into the distance and Rosie wondered if his father had built it.

Searching his muddled brain for a way to escape the bobcat, Rosie was struck with an idea. How would Pa handle this situation? But the notion was quickly dismissed; Basil King would never fall into such foolishness. But Grady, what about his uncle? Now there was an idea!

The uncle, recently defeated in a rancorous court case involving a boundary of timber, had loudly voiced his displeasure in regards to the opposing attorney. Bless me John Brown! he had declared, that silver-tongued devil could talk his way out of purgatory.

Rosie posed a wondering look at the bobcat and decided the attorney had the right idea; maybe a friendly conversation would diffuse the stalemate. He swallowed to moisten his throat and began just above a whisper, I ain’t got a silver tongue, but I’ll do my best. You favor our tom, except he’s not so big. Me an’ Tom get along fine so I reckon we can too.

The tufted ears pricked forward and Rosie’s heart leaped; the bobcat was listening. With growing confidence he went on, I’ll tell you the truth. Lately, it seems, everybody has taken a notion to sneak up on me. It happened twice tonight.

Rosie slowly held out the fiddle and tapped it with his finger. There’s something you ought to know, Mr. Bobcat, this here fiddle is a troublemaker.

The stubby tail jerked a time or two, and the bobcat sank back on his haunches. Rosie sensed the imminent danger had passed and plucked a string. The bobcat turned his head and regarded the instrument with a curious gaze.

Rosie resumed his rambling, I’ve heard it said that music soothes the savage beast. The string was plucked again. This is a poor excuse for music, but I don’t think you’re so savage either.

Searching for words, Rosie continued to pluck the strings. To his surprise, the bobcat reached over with an inquisitive paw and touched the fiddle.

If I had a bow, said Rosie, I’d fiddle you a tune. Truth is, I’m a coward. That’s why I don’t have a bow; I run away an’ left it at the church. An’ without a bow I can’t play so I’ll be movin’ on. It was nice meetin’ you, but I’m going on home.

Rosie labored to his feet, and placing the weight of his injured foot on the heel, limped toward the road. A rustle at his rearguard prompted a glance over his shoulder; the bobcat, like a well heeled ‘coonhound, was padding along behind him.

The fiddler reckoned his best defense was more conversation; and, brushing through the fodder, he returned to his rambling, A coward ought to take better care of his feet. But I see you’re a good cat; an’, since you didn’t jump on me, I promise I won’t shoot you when I’m squirrel huntin’.

At the point of the hill the sloping path turned severe. And the cornrows, contoured to protect against erosion, curved away from the road. Before attempting the steeper path, Rosie stopped to tighten the bandage. In the moment of silence a staccato of hoof beats caught his ear. At the bottom of the hill, a rider was galloping along the creek side road. The rider came to the ford, splashed across the stream, and started up the hill.

I’m glad we stopped, muttered Rosie, I wouldn’t want to meet that fella on the road. The way my luck is runnin’, that could be the Headless Horseman.

The contour of the hill road followed a lazy S, and when the rider rounded the first curve it sounded as though he was moving away. But at the next turn, the drone of hoof beats grew sharp and louder. The rider came to a spot in the road just a short distance from the fiddler’s location and pulled up. The Headless Horseman, breathed Rosie, no one else knows my whereabouts.

Between a panic and a kindling anger, the fiddler began counting to ten. He finished the count and had started over when a voice hallooed from the road, Rosie King!

Rosie knew he was licked. He raised the fiddle high into the air, but before he could slam it across his knee the voice called again. Rosie! Rosie King, can you hear me?

Rosie forced a weak response, Who are you? What do you want?

I’m here to take you home, was the reply, My name is Tyler Weldon. I just came from your house; I took your fiddle case home. Your folks didn’t know you were gone, they thought you were at the barn practicing. They said it wasn’t like you to wander off. If we don’t get you home soon, the entire neighborhood will be out lookin’ for you.

Relief washed over the young fiddler; in his frazzled state of mind he had failed to recognize the voice that directed the Bethany Choir. He shouted, I didn’t mean to upset my folks.

They’re not angry, replied Tyler Weldon, just a little concerned. Are you okay?

I stumped my toe.

Stay right where you are an’ we’ll come over an’ give you a lift.

Rosie suddenly remembered his escort. There’s a bobcat over here, he could spook your horse.

The horse pushed into the cornfield and a big throaty laugh accompanied the clash of fodder. The nodding horse pulled up and the rider was still chuckling. We know your friend, said Tyler Weldon, he hangs around this neck of the woods an’ often shadows me and Cody. I’m surprised that you’ve never seen him. Some folks around here might tell you that Mr. Bob is a ghost.

I sorta had that idea myself, said Rosie, and then he blurted. Surely, you don’t believe in ghosts? And was embarrassed for the remark.

Ponderingly Tyler Weldon answered, Sometimes I think I do. Funny thing though, mention a ghost an’ folks will roll their eyes an’ smile, but they can’t wait to take you aside an’ tell you their favorite ghost story. But you won’t find them, even on a dare, visitin’ a spooky ol’ house or ridin’ the back roads on dark, stormy nights.

The rider slipped his foot from the stirrup and dangled it toward the fiddler. Let’s go home, a sore foot makes for hard travelin’.

Rosie handed the fiddle to Mr. Weldon.