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Updated: May 14, 2025
At the end he sank on his knees, close by the bed, and looked into the countenance of the sick man, searching it as a forester searches in the undergrowth for a lost trail. Then his eyes lighted up as he found it. "My son," said he, clasping the old fiddler's hand in his own, "you are Jacques Dellaire. And I do you know me now? I am Baptiste Lacombe. See those two scars upon my neck.
The one thing he begged for was that we would take him to Fiddler's Ranch. You know there is a mission- station here, so we have him in the clergyman's house, and the place is so advanced that he has every comfort. But I doubt whether the dear boy will ever move again. He is perfectly helpless, but his brain quite clear, and his spirits good. "Ever yours, "F. A. TRAVIS UNDERWOOD."
But Deacon Callendar went up Great George street that day with a heavy, angry heart. His nephew opened the door for him. "Uncle John, I have been looking all over for you. I have something to tell you." "Fiddler's news, Davie. I hae heard it already. Sae you hae struck hands wi' Robert Leslie after a', eh?" "He had my promise, uncle, before I spoke to you. I could not break it." "H'm!
"I sometimes think I am, and that I left my youth at Fiddler's Ranch." Wherewith he strolled to the piano, and began to improvise something so yearning and melancholy that Anna was not sorry when her uncle came back and mentioned the tune the old cow died of.
"But if," said Bax, "Long Orrick said he would run to Pegwell Bay, which is three or four miles to the nor'ard o' this, and resolved that he would not go to Fiddler's Cave, which is six miles to the s'uth'ard, why should you go to the very place he's not likely to be found at?" "Because I knows the man," replied Bluenose, with a wink of deep meaning; "I knows him better than you do.
Peter, to heaven, will ever let in. Says I, Mr Parson, to tell you my mind, No sailors to knock were ever yet seen, Those who travel by land may steer 'gainst wind, But we shape a course for Fiddler's Green. For Fiddler's Green, where seamen true, When here they've done their duty, The bowl of grog shall still renew And pledge to love and beauty.
"You've had a wet tramp of it," was all she found to reply, though aware that the speech was inconsequent and trivial. "Damnably. Left the coach at Fiddler's Cross, and trudged down across the fields. We were soaked enough on the coach, though, and couldn't get much worse." "We?" "Why, you don't suppose I was the only passenger by the coach, eh?" he put in quickly. "No, I forgot."
Roving whaler and armed East Indiaman, plunging packet ship and stately clipper, they served their appointed days and passed on their several courses to become mere memories, as shadowy and unsubstantial as the gleam of their own topsails when seen at twilight. The souls of their sailors have fled to Fiddler's Green, where all dead mariners go.
Some way he realized that now and then his hand touched hers, and that once, as they whirled about the room, in obedience to the monarch on the fiddler's rostrum, his arm was about her waist, and her head touching his shoulder. It made little difference whether the dance calls were obeyed after that.
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