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Updated: May 6, 2025
If you had hurt it I'd have hurt you, Mr. Fawe," Ingolby said with a grim smile. "That fiddle's got too much in it to waste it." "Mi Duvel! Mi Duvel!" gasped the Romany in his fury. "You can say that as much as you like, but if you play any more of your monkey tricks here, my Paganini, I will wring your neck," Ingolby returned, his six feet of solid flesh making a movement of menace.
She had nae blude to cry for vengeance; but the snappin' o' her strings an' the crackin' o' her banes may hae made a cry to gang far eneuch notwithstandin'. The old woman seemed for one moment rebuked under her grandson's eloquence. He had made a great stride towards manhood since the morning. 'The fiddle's my ain, she said, in a defensive tone.
"There's enough liquor in the head when the fiddle's in the hand. 'Dadia', I do not need the spirit to make the pulses go!" "As little as you like then, if you'll only play as well as you did this afternoon," Ingolby said cheerily. "I will play better," was the reply. "On Sarasate's violin well, of course." "Not only because it is Sarasate's violin, 'Kowadji'!" "Kowadji!
Do you know whether my fiddle's in tune or no? trut...prut.. . They should be fifths. 'Tis wickedly strung tr...a.e.i.o.u.-twang. The bridge is a mile too high, and the sound post absolutely down, else trut...prut hark! tis not so bad a tone. Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum.
The boatswain did, but before he could speak, Dennis O'Moore had sprung to the ground between them, and laying the fiddle over his shoulder played a wild sort of jig that most effectually and unceremoniously drowned the rest of the song, and diverted the attention of the men. "The fiddle's an old friend, so the bo'sun tells me," he said, nodding towards the faces that turned to him.
A Thomas Jefferson, up-to-date; a John Randolph of the present day; the Lincoln of my own time; the ancestor of Fiddle's great-grandchildren." She rumpled his hair. "I like you as you are." He caught her hand and held it. "But you'd like me on a pedestal?" "If you'll let me help you carve it." He kissed the hand that he held.
"Mind, Ipsden, you are a man of property, and there are such things as commissions de lunatico." Lady Bar. "His defense will be that his friends pronounced him insane." Ips. "No; I shall subpoena Talbot's fiddle, cross-examination will get nothing out of that but, do, re, mi, fa." Lady Bar. "Yes, it will; fa, mi, re, do." Tal. "Violin, if you please." Lady Bar. "Ask Fiddle's pardon, directly."
"Ungahree!" he said, and smiled and nodded again, and said again, "Ungahree!" "He knows that word all right," said Burns, smiling back. "It's a land of musicians. The fiddle's a good one, I'll wager." He glanced at it as he spoke, and the boy leaped for it, pressing it to his breast. He began to tune it. "He thinks we want to be paid for his supper," Ellen exclaimed.
'Ye see, mem, he said, 'I cam' upo' my grandfather's fiddle. But my grandmither thinks the fiddle's no gude. And sae she tuik and she hed it. But I faun't it again. An' I daurna play i' the hoose, though my grannie's i' the country, for Betty hearin' me and tellin' her. And sae I gang to the auld fact'ry there.
This is Amber. Where's your fiddle?" "Hi, Amber. Fiddle's in the car. Maybe we'll get to a little Cripple Creek later." Willow flushed. "I think I've retired," she said. "Not allowed." Martin was having trouble keeping his eyes off Amber who had shifted to ground midway between a barnwarmer's dream and a folksinger's groupie. Here we go again, Willow thought. "How's that Chevy running?" Art asked.
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