by Diane Taylor
Jerusha was a preacher-man.
He wouldn't chaw or whittle.
He never drank or cussed (out loud)
But when he played the fiddle
The folks who lived on Buckskin Creek
Would shake their heads in wonder.
Jerusha played the mountains down
And rocked the sky with thunder.
Now, every Friday night, they held
A "do" at Rayburn's barn
And folks would come for miles around
To dance or spin a yarn.
Before Jerusha played a note
He'd lead them all in prayer
But two green eyes were open wide
Beneath thick auburn hair.
Amanda sighed impatiently.
No humble prayer could reach her.
She always got her heart's desire
And she desired the preacher.
While heavy brogans shook the floor
In rhythm to the music,
Amanda caught Jerusha's eye
And stunned him with her magic.
Jerusha put his fiddle down.
He said his head was reeling.
Amanda quickly took his hand
Because she knew the feeling.
She walked Jerusha two miles home
Across the midnight ridges
And mixed with honeysuckle
Was the scent of burning bridges.
Jerusha came to town next day
With swaggers in his stride.
His eyes, once filled with Godly light,
Were now on fire with pride.
He stood upon the Courthouse steps and,
When there was a crowd,
Jerusha's voice was like the wind
Before a thundercloud.
"Good people!" Some folks looked around.
"I spoke to God last night.
He said that fiddlin' is a gift
And I believe He's right.
Through Miss Amanda, I have seen
A way to spread the Word.
A fiddlin' contest will be held.
No soul will be un-stirred!"
He said that any fiddler
Who wished to play should meet
Next Friday night at Rayburn's barn.
HE set off down the street
With Miss Amanda by his side.
She'd show them who was best!
No one would dare be rude to she
Whose lover won the test!
That evening, while cool summer light
Swept stars into dark hollow,
Jerusha stood upon his porch
And lullabied the swallows.
But, suddenly, Jerusha stopped
And held his fiddle, swaying.
From somewhere in the shadows was
Another fiddler playing!
"Who could it be," Jerusha raged,
"who dares to mock me so?!"
He put his fiddle to his chin
And smoke plumed from his bow.
But every time Jerusha stopped,
The other fiddler rested.
And back and forth the battle raged
Until the sun had crested.
Then, suddenly, the music stopped,
And people in the town
Sent two men to Jerusha's house
But when they brought him down
As dead as any man can be,
Amanda packed and cried.
You see, what killed Jerusha was
An echo - and his pride.
