SOMETIMES if you listen—listen 

When the sunlight fades to gray, 

You will hear a strange musician 

At the quiet close of day; 

Hear a strange and quaint musician 

On his shrill-voiced fiddle play. 

He bears a curious fiddle 

On his coat of shiny black, 

And draws the bow across the string 

In crevice and in crack; 

Till the sun climbs up the mountain 

And floods the earth with light, 

You will hear the strange musician 

Playing—playing all the night! 

Sometimes underneath the hearth-stone, 

Sometimes underneath the floor, 

He plays the same shrill music,— 

Plays the same tune o'er and o'er; 

And sometimes in the pasture, 

Beneath a cold, gray stone, 

He tightens up the sinews, 

And fiddles all alone. 

It may be, In the autumn, 

From the corner of your room 

You will hear the shrill-voiced fiddle 

Sounding out upon the gloom; 

If you wish to see the player, 

Softly follow up the sound, 

And you'll find a dark-backed cricket 

Fiddling out a merry round! 

— Youth's Companion.