YULE-TIME. 133 



day ; and by this time it may be supposed we were 

 pretty well stuffed and used up. 



But the proceedings of the day were not yet over. 

 A number of my uncle's tenants in our neighbourhood, 

 and their wives and sons and daughters, having been 

 invited to a dance in the evening, they began to drop 

 in about six o'clock. When all were assembled — a 

 goodly company of honest fishermen, buxom matrons, 

 stalwart lads, and blithe rosy-cheeked lasses, all dressed 

 in their Sunday best — tea and cake were handed round. 

 Fredamen Stickle, a very prince of fiddlers, summoned 

 from over the hill for the occasion, was elevated on a 

 chair on the top of the dresser in the ample kitchen, 

 my uncle's splendid Straduarius fiddle in hand, and 

 dancing began. Fredamen — or Frsedie, as he was 

 familiarly called — was a born musician, and handled 

 the bow with admirable ease, grace, and spirit. His 

 grandfather or great-grandfather was a shipwrecked 

 German sailor, who had married and settled in the 

 island. Probably Frsedie's German ancestry had some- 

 thing to do with his remarkable musical tastes and 

 talents. I have a vivid memory of Fraedie sitting on 

 his elevated perch, his head thrown back, his bright 

 light-blue eyes sparkling, and his handsome, mobile, 

 and expressive countenance beaming with smiles of 

 delighted excitement, while his right hand swept the 

 strings with well-rosined bow, and his right foot beat 

 loudly the splendid time like a drumstick. The man's 

 spare but lithe and sinewy body seemed to be trans- 

 formed into a musical machine ; and the music was 



