He Has Got the Fiddle, but Not the Stick

It often comes to pass that a man steps into another's shoes, and yet cannot walk in them. A poor tool of a parson gets into a good man's pulpit, and takes the same texts, but the sermons are chalk, and not cheese. A half-baked young swell inherits his father's money, but not his generosity, his barns, but not his brains, his title, but not his sense,—he has the fiddle without the stick, and the more's the pity.

Some people imagine that they have only to get hold of the plough-handles, and they would soon beat John Ploughman. If they had his fiddle they are sure they could play on it. J. P. presents his compliments, and wishes he may be there when it is done.

"That I fain would see,
Quoth blind George of Hollowee."

However, between you and me and the bedpost, there is one secret which John does not mind letting out. John's fiddle is poor enough, but the stick is a right good one, too good to be called a fiddle-stick. Do you want to see the stick with which John plays his fiddle? Here it is—Looking to God for help, John always tries to do his best, whatever he has to do, and he has found this to be the very best way to play all kinds of tunes. What little music there is in John's poor old fiddle comes out of it in that way. Listen to a scrape or two.

If I were a cobbler, I'd make it my pride
The best of all cobblers to be;
If I were a tinker, no tinker beside
Should mend an old kettle like me.

And being a ploughman, I plough with the best,
No furrow runs straighter than mine;
I waste not a moment, and stay not to rest,
Though idlers to tempt me combine.

Yet I wish not to boast, for trust I have none
In aught I can do or can be;
I rest in my Saviour, and what he has done
To ransom poor sinners like me.