Fiddler Jones
The earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.
Words in this poem
- beeves n.
- ; plural of Beef, the animal.
- hereafter adv.
- In time to come; in some future time or state. [AS. hræfter.]
- rustle v. i.
- To make a quick succession of small sounds, like the rubbing or moving of silk cloth or dry leaves. [AS. hristlan to rustle; or cf. Sw. rusta to stir, make a riot, or E. rush, v.]
- creak v. i.
- To make a prolonged sharp grating or ssqueaking sound, as by the friction of hard substances; as, shoes creak. [OE. creken, prob. of imitative origin; cf. E. crack, and. D. kreiken to crackle, chirp.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Fiddler Jones is in the public domain. This text is taken from Spoon River Anthology, Project Gutenberg ebook #1280; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Edgar Lee Masters, Fiddler Jones, in Spoon River Anthology (1915), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1280, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/masters-spoon-river/fiddler-jones.html, id L07795.
Form and metre
Fiddler Jones is 26 lines in a single stanza. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 78%). 82% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.5 syllables. 11 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 38% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 --AB----------C-C-CB--CA-- going · you · fiddleA · lifeB · clover · river · hands · market · skirts · grove · dust · drouth · sammy · loor · acresC · more · piccolosC · robins · theseC · lifeB · road · picnic · acresC · fiddleA · memories · regret
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| The earth keeps some vibration going | 9 | ····˘/˘/˘ |
| There in your heart, and that is you. | 8 | ········ |
| And if the people find you can fiddle, | 10 | ···/˘···/˘ |
| Why, fiddle you must, for all your life. | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| What do you see, a harvest of clover? | 10 | ·····/˘·/˘ |
| Or a meadow to walk through to the river? | 11 | ··/······/˘ |
| The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands | 9 | ········· |
| For beeves hereafter ready for market; | 10 | ··˘/˘/˘·/˘ |
| Or else you hear the rustle of skirts | 9 | ·····/˘·· |
| Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove. | 10 | ····/˘·/˘· |
| To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust | 10 | ·/˘/˘·/˘·· |
| Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth; | 9 | ·/˘··/˘˘· |
| They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.” | 8 | /˘······ |
| How could I till my forty acres | 9 | ·····/˘/˘ |
| Not to speak of getting more, | 7 | ····/˘· |
| With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos | 12 | ··/˘··˘/·/˘· |
| Stirred in my brain by crows and robins | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| And the creak of a wind-mill—only these? | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| And I never started to plow in my life | 11 | ··/˘/˘····· |
| That some one did not stop in the road | 9 | ········· |
| And take me away to a dance or picnic. | 11 | ···˘/····/· |
| I ended up with forty acres; | 9 | ·/˘··/˘/˘ |
| I ended up with a broken fiddle— | 10 | ·/˘···/˘/˘ |
| And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, | 12 | ··/˘···/˘/˘˘ |
| And not a single regret. | 7 | ···/˘˘/ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.