The last red rays of the evening sun disappeared below the mountains and the gray twilight settled over the valley. The mill ceased its rumbling. The mower that all day long had been clicking merrily in the meadow behind the store stood silent in the swaths, and the horses that had drawn it were playfully dipping their noses in the cool waters of the creek. The birds—the plover, the lark and the snipe that had whistled since daybreak over the fields and the robins and sparrows that had chirped overhead in the trees—had long since made themselves comfortable for the impending night. By and by the woods beyond the flats assumed a formless blackness and from their dark midst came the lonely call of the whippoorwill. The horses splashed out of the creek and clattered through the village to the white barn at the end of the street. The Miller padlocked the heavy door of the mill and bid good night to his helper, who trudged away over the bridge swinging his dinner pail. Then he beat[184] the flour out of his cap on the hitching-post and lounged up to the store. He threw himself along the floor, and after propping his back against a pillar, lighted his pipe.
“‘Hen it comes to fiddlin’,” the Chronic Loafer was saying, “they is few men can beat Sam Washin’ton. Why I’ve knowd him to set down at a party at seven at night an’ fiddle till six next mornin’ an’ play a different tune every time.”
“Did you ever hear o’ Hiram Gum?” asked the Patriarch.
“Hiram Gum!” cried the G. A. R. Man. “My father used often to speak o’ him, but he was afore my time. Drowned in the canal.”
“Wonderful, wonderful, I’ve heard tell,” exclaimed the Miller. “I can jest remember seein’ him oncet ’hen I was a wee bit o’ a boy—a leetle man with long hair an’ big eyes an’ a withered arm.”
“Yes, yes,” the old man murmured, beating his stick upon the porch. “An’ a wonderful fiddler was Hiram Gum. They was few ’round these parts could han’le a bow with that man.”
“But Sam Washin’ton’s the best fiddler they is,” the Loafer interposed emphatically.
“My dear man, Hiram Gum was more’n an earthly fiddler,” the Patriarch retorted. “He hed charms. He knowd words.”
“I don’t b’lieve in them charms furder then they ’fect snakes an’ bees.”
[185]
“But Hiram Gum was more’n an ord’nary man, an’ I otter know, fer I remember him well. He was leetle, ez the Miller sayd, an’ hed long black hair an’ a red beard that waved all around his neck, an’ big black eyes, an’ cheeks that shined like they was scoured. Then his left arm was all withered an’ wasn’t no use exceptin’ that he could crook it up like an’ work the long fingers on the fiddle-strings. No one knowd how old Hiram was, no more’n they knowd where he come from ’hen he settled up the walley sixty years ago, fer he never sayd. No one ever dast ask him ’bout sech things, fer he’d jest look black an’ say nawthin’, an’ give you sech a glance with them big eyes that you felt all creepy. Aside from that he was allus a pleasant, cheery kind of a man, an’ talked entertainin’, fer he’d traveled a heap.
“Hiram settled in a little lawg house that stood on South Ridge near where Silver’s peach orchard is now. Peter Billings’s farm joined his lot, an’ it wasn’t long ’fore the leetle man tuk to strollin’ over to see his neighbors of an evenin’. By an’ by he seemed to take a considerable shine fer Peter’s dotter Susan. First no one thot nawthin’ of it, fer it hairdly seemed likely that ez pretty a girl ez she would care much about sech a dried-up leetle speciment ez Hiram Gum. Besides, fer a long time she’d ben keepin’ company with young Jawhn McCullagh, whose father owned ’bout the best piece o’ farmin’ land up the walley.[186] He was a big, fine-lookin’ felly, a bit o’ a boaster, an’ with a likin’ fer his own way.
“So no one ever dreamt anything ’ud come o’ Hiram Gum loafin’ over at Billings’s. But, boys, ’hen you’ve lived ez long ez I hev, an’ seen ez much o’ the worl’ ez I hev, you’ll come to the conclusion that they is a heap o’ truth in the old sayin’ that matches is made in Heaven. But it do seem sometim’s like they wasn’t much time or thot spent in the makin’. Fust thing we heard that Hi hed ben drove off the Billings’s place an’ Susan was kep’ locked in her room fer a week. An’ sech a change ez come over that man. It was airly in the spring ’hen it happened. He’d allus met a man with a hearty ‘howde’ before, but after that he never spoke ’hen he passed. From one o’ the pleasantest o’ men he become one o’ the blackest. From comin’ to store every day, he got to comin’ only ’hen he needed things. The rest o’ the time he spent mopin’ up in his placet on the hill. Susan changed too. She lost color an’ got solemn like. Many a time I seen her leanin’ over the gate, lookin’ away up the ridge to where Hiram’s placet lay.
“Then come the Lander’s big party. It was the last o’ the season fer the hot weather was near ’hen they wasn’t no time fer swingin’ corners, let alone the overheatin’ that ’ud come by it, so everybody in the walley was there. Young an’ old danced that night. They was three sets in[187] the settin’-room an’ two in the kitchen; they was two in the entry an’ one on the porch. Save fer layin’ off at ten o’clock fer sweet-cake an’ cider we done wery leetle restin’. They was mighty few wanted to rest much ’hen Hiram Gum played. He’d no sooner tuk his placet in the corner then every inch o’ the floor was covered with sets. Bow yer corners! an’ we was off.”
The old man beat his stick on the porch and waved his body to and fro.
“My, but that was fiddlin’! It jest went th’oo a man like one o’ them ’lectric shockin’ machines. Yer feet was started an’ away ye went; ole Hiram settin’ there with his withered arm crooked up to hold the fiddle, the long, crooked fingers flyin’ over the strings, the bow goin’ so fast ye could hairdly see it, his big black eyes lookin’ down inter the instermen’, his long hair an’ beard wavin’ ez he swung to an’ fro. Now yer own! Oh, them was dancin’ days ’hen Hi Gum played!
“They never was a more inweterate hat-passer then Hiram, fer be his playin’ he made his livin’, an’ never a n............