Daddy Joe s fiddle 1st Edition by Faith Bickford

Original publication: New York: H. M. Caldwell Co, 1903A tall clock in the hall was striking eleven. A tired, but very wide-awake, little girl was climbing thestairs. “Land sakes, child! Hear that? Go straight to sleep now. It’s wicked for grown folks to be up this timeof night, say nothing of young ’uns.”The child made no reply. She had nothing to say. Older people than Chee have learned to be silent; in hercase, lessons had been unnecessary. Softly closing her chamber door, Chee blew out the little flame that hadlighted her way up the creaking stairs. Instead of going straight to sleep, she sat down by the open windowand began to unbraid her long, stiff hair. Impatiently she stopped, and clenched her brown hands. Hercheeks burned as she broke out in bitter whispers, “Oh, the music! The music! And Aunt Mean called itwicked. It wasn’t wicked. It was lovely. It made me want to fly right up to heaven. Guess things that makeyou feel that way aren’t wicked. She couldn’t have heard it much,” continued the child, excitedly. “She waswatching the people in front of us, and ’zaminin’ their clothes. Told Uncle Reuben how many different kindsof stuffs were on Mrs. Snow’s bonnet; and that beautiful, beautiful song going on all the while. It wasn’twicked! The choir at church isn’t wicked, and this is fifty times nicer. ’Sides—” Her hands dropped limply toher lap. Her eyes lifted from their watch down the road which lay white and smooth in the moonlight, theshadows of the trees crouching dark on either side. Gazing up at the stars she continued, tenderly, “MyDaddy Joe made music on one. He called it his ‘dear old fiddle,’ he loved it so. No, it can’t be wicked.”With the thought of Daddy Joe came a new grievance. “And I just won’t let any one hurt it, either, Iwon’t. I love it, too. If Aunt Mean knew, she’d call me wicked, but she sha’n’t know—ever. I’ll make out Ididn’t like the concert, so she can’t guess. No, I won’t, either, I suppose that ’ud be a lie….