The progressive farmer. [volume] (Winston, N.C.) 1886-1904, 1896-12-22
TOM WATSON's D

Hon Tom Watson is a busy man. All
days are his busy days. H not only
runs a large farm, but he edits a news
paper, keeps up an immense CORES,
poEdence aud devotes much time~to
writing a history of France, which he
IS now engaged in preparing for the
press. Despite all these labors, Watson
finds time for sentiment. He is a lover
of music and plays the violin. While
IN Dallas a correspondent had a talk
with Mr.. Watson, and gives the fol,
lowing report of it:
tom Watson plays the violin. In
n of the rare intervals Of quiet dur
ing the rush Of his visit to Texas, he
was sitting, with his feet in the win
dow, looking out into the starlit night.
From a house near by came the mo-
notonous saving of a fiddle. High
toned musicians shudder at the word
fiddle, but it is q good word in Georgia
and Arkansas. There was not much
music in the sound that drifted in
through the window. The player was
evidently an amature trying his hand
at eimple things. Watson sat for awhile
in silence, the hard lines Of his face
.softening a bit and a suspicion Of ten
derness stole into the cold black eye.
He turned around and said:
DO you play the fddle2"
You could tell by the tone that the
man was talking Of something near
and dear to him. He was assured that
the writer had W eDj Dyed the con
ISOLATION of that instrument.
And then he said, still musing, You
have missed a great deal. The fiddle
is the most delightful of all instru-
ments. Somehow or other it comes
nearer speaking the language of the
heart, those things we feel but cannot
express, than any mechanism of human
hands. There is wider range and more
volume to it than to the cornet or the
guitar or the piano. There is a subtle
melody in 8 fiddle that none of the
others contain, a shade of expression
not to be found anywhere else"
The man was in earnest. Having got
away from the dusty and stony ways
of politics and put aside the ~asperities
of the campaign, the thoughts of home
tender memories of those left behind
were uppermost in his mind and he
was silent.
So the writer asked him: do you
play the fiddler"
Watson blushed and continued to
gaze at the stars. Finally he said:
Yes, but I am not much Of a player.
l have never mastered what you might
call classical music, but I reel off some
plain tunes fairly well. To the winter
when the evenings are long and we are
compelled to stay indoors l get down
the old fiddle, my wife takes her place
at the piano, one Of the girls has a gui-
tar and we pass the time with music,
old fashioned homely things like Old
Resin the Bow" Way Down Upon
the 8'wanee RIVER" "Arkaneaw Trav
Home, Sweet Home" Ben
Bolt kathleen Mavourneen," The
Bonnie Blue Fleg" and others that
everybody knows. Perhaps we do not
play them perfectly from a technical
standpoint, but the audience is never
hypocritical and the sentiments of all
the songs find their way to the hearts
of those present. We play for our own
amusement more than for any other
purpose. We seldom have any visitors
to our impromptu concerts and never
ourselves upon strangers"
How did you come to take up fi-
dlipg9"
"In the old days long ago, when I
was as poor as O church mouse, strug
Cling to keep myself fed and clothed,
the evenings were almost intolerably
lonesome. I had no taste for the dis
sipatiOns and amusements with which
men ordinarily dispose Of time which
hangs heavily on their hands. So I
bought me a fiddle and I can never tell
you how much comfort and coDstla
ton and satisfaction I got out of 1t.
When tie outlook was gloomy and
were few once in awhile l would
strike a bright chord which would fill
me with hope and the vexation and
trials Of the day would vanish. When
business was good and money was
plentiful the fiddle was quiet and re
1ective, reminding me of the vanity Of
pride, hope and ambition. 1t was al
ways a faithful friend alike in gray