nothing."
"Oh, but it is, Jesse," Meggie insisted as she came forward to lay a loving hand on her brother's shoulder. "You've a wonderful talent. You should be proud."
He shook away the compliment. "It ain't like I can read or cipher or something. I just hear the music in my head and it comes out my fingers."
'That's something that a lot of people who can read and cipher can never do," Roe told him.
Jesse was clearly embarrassed by this praise. "You just say that 'cause you're my frien'."
"I
am
your friend," Roe answered. "And friends always tell each other the truth."
'They do?"
Roe nodded.
Jesse's blue eyes widened and his face beamed with pleasure.
"Let's hear what it sounds like on the machine," Roe suggested.
Meggie didn't even feign disinterest as Farley changed the stylus again. Maybe the stranger was right about the Ediphone. Once the mountain folks had heard the wonderful new machine, maybe they would help him collect the music.
As the stylus moved along the grooves in the wax, the music flowed out of the horn. Her father's singing was almost too faint to hear, but the sweet strains of Jesse's violin sounded almost as good in the reproduction as it had when he'd played it.
"Is that how my fiddle sounds?" Jesse asked curiously.
"Well, you sound better than that," Roe told him. "But it's close."
Jesse shook his head in disbelief. "This machine is like the magic in one of Meggie's stories."
He turned to smile with pride at his sister.
"Meggie's stories?" Roe asked.
The young man nodded. "Meggie, she reads real good. And she don't just read the Bible, neither. She's got a book of them fairy tales they're called. Sometimes she reads them to me."
Her cheeks were bright red with the stain of embarrassment. Meggie began to move back from the men and toward the dirty dishes she'd left behind.
"They's magic in them fairy tales," Jesse continued. "Things can happen that a feller wouldn't believe could never happen."
"So I understand," Roe agreed.
"And this machine of yours, it's like that. A feller wouldn't never believe that it can listen and then talk and play near as good as me."
"No, Jesse," Roe assured him. "The machine isn't magic. The machine can't talk or play at all. It simply records you and plays what it's heard back. Magic is only in fairy tales."
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
J. MONROE FARLEY
April 17, 1902
Marrying Stone, Arkansas
The family who have given me shelter are an interesting yet peculiar trio. Their speech and ways are old and curious and I find myself observing them as if they were living fossils. They are a musical family and have agreed to help with my work and to introduce me to other people nearby. The farmer himself at one time made his living in these hills playing the fiddle. His son is simpleminded, but is a very accomplished fiddler and has in his repertoire a wide range of tunes that he has begun to share with me.
On Friday next we are set to attend what the Bests call "the Literary." This is apparently a local social gathering where music and cultural events take place. I am very anxious to attend, but find much here in this wilderness homestead to draw my interest. It is as if I have stepped back into time.
The typical day begins with breaking fast before dawn. The personal habits of the Best family are difficult for me to accustom myself to. On the first evening I asked of Jesse, the son, directions to the privy. The young man looked momentarily confused and then explained in his simple way that the homestead did not boast a privy.
Subsistence farming in this rough, unbroken stretch of mountain that the Best family calls home proves to be laborious, backbreaking work. Due to the farmer's age and bad leg, the toughest and the dirtiest jobs fall to the younger and stronger son. And, to my dismay, the young man eagerly shares these chores with me.
Although I find the backwoods life interesting in an intellectual context, I can't help but think
"Oh, but it is, Jesse," Meggie insisted as she came forward to lay a loving hand on her brother's shoulder. "You've a wonderful talent. You should be proud."
He shook away the compliment. "It ain't like I can read or cipher or something. I just hear the music in my head and it comes out my fingers."
'That's something that a lot of people who can read and cipher can never do," Roe told him.
Jesse was clearly embarrassed by this praise. "You just say that 'cause you're my frien'."
"I
am
your friend," Roe answered. "And friends always tell each other the truth."
'They do?"
Roe nodded.
Jesse's blue eyes widened and his face beamed with pleasure.
"Let's hear what it sounds like on the machine," Roe suggested.
Meggie didn't even feign disinterest as Farley changed the stylus again. Maybe the stranger was right about the Ediphone. Once the mountain folks had heard the wonderful new machine, maybe they would help him collect the music.
As the stylus moved along the grooves in the wax, the music flowed out of the horn. Her father's singing was almost too faint to hear, but the sweet strains of Jesse's violin sounded almost as good in the reproduction as it had when he'd played it.
"Is that how my fiddle sounds?" Jesse asked curiously.
"Well, you sound better than that," Roe told him. "But it's close."
Jesse shook his head in disbelief. "This machine is like the magic in one of Meggie's stories."
He turned to smile with pride at his sister.
"Meggie's stories?" Roe asked.
The young man nodded. "Meggie, she reads real good. And she don't just read the Bible, neither. She's got a book of them fairy tales they're called. Sometimes she reads them to me."
Her cheeks were bright red with the stain of embarrassment. Meggie began to move back from the men and toward the dirty dishes she'd left behind.
"They's magic in them fairy tales," Jesse continued. "Things can happen that a feller wouldn't believe could never happen."
"So I understand," Roe agreed.
"And this machine of yours, it's like that. A feller wouldn't never believe that it can listen and then talk and play near as good as me."
"No, Jesse," Roe assured him. "The machine isn't magic. The machine can't talk or play at all. It simply records you and plays what it's heard back. Magic is only in fairy tales."
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
J. MONROE FARLEY
April 17, 1902
Marrying Stone, Arkansas
The family who have given me shelter are an interesting yet peculiar trio. Their speech and ways are old and curious and I find myself observing them as if they were living fossils. They are a musical family and have agreed to help with my work and to introduce me to other people nearby. The farmer himself at one time made his living in these hills playing the fiddle. His son is simpleminded, but is a very accomplished fiddler and has in his repertoire a wide range of tunes that he has begun to share with me.
On Friday next we are set to attend what the Bests call "the Literary." This is apparently a local social gathering where music and cultural events take place. I am very anxious to attend, but find much here in this wilderness homestead to draw my interest. It is as if I have stepped back into time.
The typical day begins with breaking fast before dawn. The personal habits of the Best family are difficult for me to accustom myself to. On the first evening I asked of Jesse, the son, directions to the privy. The young man looked momentarily confused and then explained in his simple way that the homestead did not boast a privy.
Subsistence farming in this rough, unbroken stretch of mountain that the Best family calls home proves to be laborious, backbreaking work. Due to the farmer's age and bad leg, the toughest and the dirtiest jobs fall to the younger and stronger son. And, to my dismay, the young man eagerly shares these chores with me.
Although I find the backwoods life interesting in an intellectual context, I can't help but think
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