West-Jersey pioneer., 1878-06-27
CHARLEY'S FIDDLE.

or South, this drummer belonged! Young
he was, his fair skin tanned by the grim old
sun, his blue eyes shining out like very for
get-me-nots, in the dull, dark surroundings.
They said of him in camps, that he was a
boy, and surely they greeted him in their
rough way, like child. Sunburnt men
called him Charley" talked with him,
spoke of the scenes far away, where those
whom these sunburnt men loved more than
anything else in the world lived; and Char
ley listened to them, and heard what was
never told to older, less unsophisticated
companions for somehow his young face,
and light, cheerful laugh appealed to these
men, and made them confide in him. There
was even rumor that Sandy Green, the
tall, awkward widower from the frontier,
had told Charley about his own young days
and made the boys blue eyes brim over at
some little touch of sentiment.
You may, perhaps, say that there is no
time, no place for sentiment among big,
brawny men, prepared for and experienced
in war. 1t was not so! Around camp fires,
in places at night, when the tramp, tramp,
tramp of the sentry seems ghostly, full of
dire warning, there are tales of love and
sorrow and loss and hope remembered and
told to listening ears, that hear these faint
est whispers as greedily as they do the aw-
full, death-delivering sound of cannon, or
soft whistle of the rife-b ball. Thus was
Charley, the drummer boy, cyclopedia of
all the gentler thoughts of the soldiers
about him.
Often, in the dusk of evening, when the
men were lettering about the camp, and the
kindly stars were peeping family out above
the white tents, there would come little,
wailing sound on the breeze, and the listen
ers would stop in their game at cards, or
their wild talk, smile, maybe, little, and
say, ''That's Charley's fiddle.''
And did any one take the trouble to look
for the boy, he might be seen perched up
on ledge of rock, or sitting fat on the
ground, his chin pressed down, and his bow
in his hand, seraping dolefully out of his
shabby violin all the old. old tunes he re-
diu SOLlS vi Iu6 u0WGE OutS
made for the war, and even some silly, love-
lorn ditty, which had come by devious
way and a fearful mischance into camp.
So, here among the purple shadows, when
the fire on the outpost shimmered, and there
was strange quiet around, while the little
crickets chirped, Charley would play the
tunes of peace and happiness, the same as,
miles away, they were being played and
sung by laughing, careless people in the
crowded cities, filed with the rumors of
war, not understood, but appreciated.
But Charley had never been in an engage
ment as yet, and the men said, ''Don't be
so anxious, boy; it'll all come soon enough!
And it did come soon enough for him.
Charley wrote to his aunt that camp life
was just the thing for him, only it was SO
monotonous. He also told the boys that
his aunt was the only relative he had in the
world, strong of will and temper, and that
she was ''mortal angry with him" for going
away from her-for somehow or other, he
guessed she ''sort O. liked him."
That was all he told them, and they got
up joke about "Aunt Teddy" and often
spoke of her to Charley, and told him when
they saw him busy writing, to be sure to
send much of their love to her
''You don't know her," said Charley, OF
you wouldn't make so light of it. Why,
she could take any Of you single hauded,
and you'd never know what hurt you"
And so he wrote often and often to her.
But Charley's fiddle! Well, it seemed a
part of him. He loved the miserable little
tunes he could play on it; he loved to sit
down anywhere and at any time, and strike
up one of those little tunes, and play and
play, till it was wonder how much endur-
ance has, not to mention human fingers and
patience. He would pat his fiddle almost
as though it were little child, and his blue
eyes would flash as his hands swept over
the strings And the time went on; and in
the intervals of Charley's drum-taps, his
fiddle took it up.
The day came when there were prepara-
tions for a battle going on; the enemy were
surrounding them; and Charley was glad,
but quiet.
There was less time for fun in camp now,
and picket duty was not sentimental any
more-except that it was tragic. Two men
had been picked off by scouts, and the grim
faces of the boys looked like death when
they heard it.
Yet one pleasant, cool night, while the
long white streets Of the camp glistened III
the moonlight, and it was not yet time fol
the men to turn in, Charley was seen by
Sandy Green busily writing letter on his
drum head.
For Aunt Teddy, Charley?' asked
Sandy Green. And the boy nodded and
laughed.
Then the old man stood there long time
and watched him. He saw the pleasant
brown face, with the blue eyes bent ovel
the writing-and he was a rough very
rough man, mind you; tall, ungainly
red d-haired backwoodsman, older than mid
die life, too; and one to whom trouble wa
no account, because it must be surmounted
And yet he stood there in the early moon
light, watching the drummer boy writing
letter to an old woman.
Charley looked up when he had finished
"Ho. Sandy! you here yet!' saidhe. Thel
he folded the letter and directed it. "Sandy
I'll give it to you to see posted for me
Will you do it? You've got more chance
than l have
So Sandy took the letter, and said, as h
turned to Charley: