The Fable of the Autoharp in the North TEXT

The Fable of the Autoharp in the North

The story so far…

An autoharper put his autoharp into its bag, slung the bag over his shoulder and began to travel north.  He came to a small and pretty village, took out his autoharp— but he did not play it.  He sat on a bench, and put the autoharp on the bench beside him.  So, they sat there, the man and his autoharp, until a passer-by passed by.  I cannot tell you much about this passer-by — but I can tell you this:  he had a very big nose.  The passer-by paused, gave a nosy look, and said, ‘That’s a strange looking chili-dryer…’

The autoharper said not a word, packed his autoharp into its bag, slung the bag over his shoulder, and travelled on, north.  He can be criticised for this, I know.  But I think that his behaviour is understandable.  In the circumstances.

And he came to a charming town, sat on a bench, took out his autoharp – but he did not play it.  He put the autoharp on the bench beside him.  And they sat there together, the man and his autoharp, ignoring each other.  Until a passer-by passed by.  I cannot tell you much about this passer-by — but I can tell you this:  he had one eye bigger than the other.  The passer-by paused, aimed a beady eye, and said, ‘That’s a strange looking pasta machine…’

And the autoharper sighed, and packed up his autoharp, and travelled, north.

Then he came to another pretty town, and — as before — sat and waited, with his autoharp beside him.  And there was a bystander.  I cannot tell you much about this bystander — but I can tell you this:  he needed a shave.  And the bystander pointed a whiskery chin, and said, ‘That’s a strange looking cheese grater…’

And the autoharper said not a word, not a word.  He packed up his autoharp and travelled on, still north.

And he came to a very pretty village, with everything you would want, a pub, an old stone church, an old stone bridge over a clear river, a tea shop.  And the autoharper took out his autoharp, and put it on the bench beside him.  And he waited.  And there was a passer-by.  I cannot tell you much about this passer-by — but I can tell you this:  she had a very good ear.  And she said to the autoharper, ‘Are you going to play that autoharp or not?’

And by this he knew that he had finally reached Gargrave, where everyone knows what an autoharp looks like.  And they like to hear the autoharp played, in the pub, in the church and in the tea shop.  And, of course, in the Gargrave Village Hall. 

And the autoharper picked up his autoharp, cuddled it to his chest, and played and played and played.  Until his fingers bled.

Which was not wise.  But is understandable.  In the circumstances.

© Patrick O’Sullivan 2014