Fiddler Jones

The earth keeps some vibration going         There in your heart, and that is you.         And if the people find you can fiddle,         Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.         What do you see, a harvest of clover?         Or a meadow to walk through to the river?         The wind's in the corn; you rub your hands         For beeves hereafter ready for market;         Or else you hear the rustle of skirts         Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.         To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust         Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;         They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy         Stepping it off, to "Toor-a-Loor."         How could I till my forty acres         Not to speak of getting more,         With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos         Stirred in my brain by crows and robins         And the creak of a wind-mill - only these?         And I never started to plow in my life         That some one did not stop in the road         And take me away to a dance or picnic.         I ended up with forty acres;         I ended up with a broken fiddle -         And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,         And not a single regret.