Once a month on Sundays,
At the Washington Old Time Fiddler’s Association,
They soaked up some toe tapping,
While sawing on his old fiddle,
With rhythm guitars and a bass strumming at his side,
Daddy’s little girl toddled up to the stage and tugged,
At his pant leg for attention,
To everyone’s delight.
He loved to play,
“Bill Cheatum,” “Arkansas Traveler,”
And “Bully of the Town.”
Just as Daddy conspired,
The fiddle bug did bite her,
At the age of three.
Three months of begging,
Sufficiently coaxed her determination,
And she solemnly promised,
To practice every day.
Her eyes gleamed,
As she was presented with a tiny,
One sixteenth size,
True to her word,
Day after day.
Then one cold dark evening,
With fiddle in hand,
She walked into the room,
While Daddy fiddled away in front of the fireplace.
She meekly announced,
With great disappointment,
Her fiddle was broken.
He carefully examined the fiddle,
And asked, “what’s wrong with it?”
With a long frown
She took a deep breath and said,
“It doesn’t sound like yours.”
© 2013 M. Tsai