“What song?”
“The Alder Tree?”
He nodded. “I know it.”
Angelica didn’t know if she should push to have him help her or if it would be better to let him decide without any pressure.
“What else you need doing this morning?” Kirk asked.
“Still have to check the water in each trough, open the doors so they can get out if they want.”
“I’ll do that if you want to tell Angelica the words,” he said.
The man studied her for another moment, then nodded.
“Guess I could.”
Angelica followed Hiram Devon into the old kitchen through the mudroom where he toed off his muddy boots and slipped into regular shoes. She looked around, curious to see the home in which Kirk had grown up. She’d seen his home now, with its modern touches and homey feel. This place looked worn and old, but it was scrupulously clean.
“Want anything?” he asked, as he went to wash his hands.
“Nothing, thanks,” she replied, taking a seat at the wooden table and pulling a notebook from her tote. “I tried to write down the words as I heard them, and tried to figure them out on my own.”
He took the notebook and scanned what she’d written.
With a sigh, he took the offered pen and began writing next to her lines wherever she had it wrong.
Angelica studied him as he worked, trying to see a resemblance to Kirk in the older man’s features. Maybe in the eyes.
He looked up and caught her staring.
She looked away, not wanting to offend or have him stop helping.
“There, those are the words. The song came over from the old country generations ago. It’s about a young man leaving Scotland to go to America and the girl and friends he left behind. When word of his death reaches them, there’s mourning in the entire village.”
“How sad.”
He shrugged. “Life was tough in those days.”
“So what exactly does this word mean?”
For several minutes she jotted down the meaning of the words she didn’t know. He hummed the tune while she tried to match words to melody. “I could play this on the violin—fiddle, I mean.”
“You probably could. It’s not hard.”
“If I do, would you sing it with me so I know I have it right?”
“Here?”
“I can bring my violin here. Or you could come to Webb Francis’s home.”
“I don’t get into town much. You come here. Practice up and let me know when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Devon. I really appreciate this.”
“We’ll see how you do. Why are you interested in all this? I thought you played in the New York symphony.”
“I do. I’m taking a break and wanted to explore some different music. When I had a class in folk music at the conservatory, I really liked it and wanted to learn more.”
