Thumb of the right hand a horn of callus.
Stretch the left-hand fingers, stretch them like a spider’s legs to get the hard pads on the frets.
This was my father’s box.
Wasn’t no bigger’n a bug first time he give me C chord.
An’ when I learned as good as him, he hardly never played no more.
Used to set in the door, an’ listen an’ tap his foot.
I’m tryin’ for a break, an’ he’d scowl mean till I get her, an’ then he’d settle back easy, an’ he’d nod.
“Play,” he’d say. “Play nice.”
It’s a good box.
See how the head is wore.
They’s many a million songs wore down that wood an’ scooped her out.
Some day she’ll cave in like a egg.
But you can’t patch her nor worry her no way or she’ll lose tone.
Play her in the evening, an’ they’s a harmonica player in the nex’ tent.
Makes it pretty nice together.
The fiddle is rare, hard to learn.
No frets, no teacher.
Jes’ listen to a ol’ man an’ try to pick it up.
Won’t tell how to double.
Says it’s a secret.
But I watched.
Here’s how he done it.
Shrill as a wind, the fiddle, quick and nervous and shrill.
She ain’t much of a fiddle.
Give two dollars for her.
Fella says they’s fiddles four hundred years old, and they git mellow like whisky.
Says they’ll cost fifty-sixty thousan’ dollars.
I don’t know. Soun’s like a lie.
Harsh ol’ bastard, ain’t she?
Wanta dance?
I’ll rub up the bow with plenty rosin.
Man! Then she’ll squawk.
Hear her a mile.
These three in the evening, harmonica and fiddle and guitar.
Playing a reel and tapping out the tune, and the big deep strings of the guitar beating like a heart, and the harmonica’s sharp chords and the skirl and squeal of the fiddle.
People have to move close.
They can’t help it.
“Chicken Reel” now, and the feet tap and a young lean buck takes three quick steps, and his arms hang limp.
The square closes up and the dancing starts, feet on the bare ground, beating dull, strike with your heels.
Hands ’round and swing.
Hair falls down, and panting breaths.
Lean to the side now.
Look at that Texas boy, long legs loose, taps four times for ever’ damn step.
Never seen a boy swing aroun’ like that.
Look at him swing that Cherokee girl, red in her cheeks an’ her toe points out.
Look at her pant, look at her heave.
Think she’s tired?
Think she’s winded?
Well, she ain’t.
Texas boy got his hair in his eyes, mouth’s wide open, can’t get air, but he pats four times for ever’ darn step, an’ he’ll keep a-going’ with the Cherokee girl.