image to come These poems, stories, songs, quotes, and art have been gathered from all over the world, partly via FIDDLE-L, an online list for fiddlers and those who love fiddle music. dhebert@crocker.com

The Rosined Bow by Holman F. Day THEN the long shadows creep up over the barn rafters, and the plaintive whummle of horses and moist sufflings of impatient cattle hint that "fodder-time" is at hand. Unskilled volunteers toss down the hay and dish out the meal, for the holiday folks are at home from the city, and father has an officious little army to bother him in his chores. But now the old barn s astonished inmates must surrender themselves to even more remarkable distractions, for Uncle Pettigrew has come with THE ROSINED BOW Crispy days and sparkly nights, bulging bins and heaped-up mow And all of the cattle a-clankin their chains and nuzzlin' deep in the fodder; Days of the Season o Plenty-to-eat are hoverin' over us now, - The mellowin' days Of the sun in the haze, And the winter abreast of the border. And the winds sigh "Snow," There's a bank down low Around the southern rim of the rocky-edged horizon; Ah, my little children, though Our heads lie low, They rest easier by far than a head a king s crown lies on. For there's bounty in the cellars and there's plenty on the mows; And Contentment with her treasures all our humble peace endows. The threshing floor is shining where the flashing flails have beat, And it's smooth enough, my children, for our honest country feet. For no waxen floor is needed when we shake the festive toe If there's only Uncle Pettigrew to yank the rosined bow. Balance all and ladies chain, for'ard and back and swing to place, With the shadows dancing in double time on the mows a-hanging over; Swing to the yeak of the violin in a swift and warm embrace, While Star and Bright In the lantern light Look on with nose in the clover. There's no gay garb here, There's no rich, rare gear, But, my children, there's content and it's better far than glory; How my heart beats, dear, With your face so near, And I cannot think of words but my eyes can tell the story. Ah, I haven't honeyed language, for I haven't gift of speech, But our fingers as we're dancing clasp with meaning clear to each, And the rough old floor seems waxen where the wooden flails have beat, It's smooth enough, my sweetheart, for our honest country feet. For no ball-room gloss is needed when we shake the festive toe If there's only Uncle Pettigrew to yank the rosined bow. Holman F. Day, Kin O' Ktaadn, 1904.