The Farmers Market Fiddler

Every Saturday morning at our farmers market, a girl of about twelve plays the fiddle by the entrance. Her case is open for tips. She plays old Appalachian tunes, Irish jigs and once, memorably, a bluegrass version of a Beyoncé song.

She's been there for two summers. I've watched her get better every week. Her grandmother sits beside her on a folding chair, knitting, nodding along.

People stop. Kids dance. An old man in overalls sometimes joins her with his harmonica. Dogs sit and stare at her, mesmerized.

This summer, I asked her grandmother what the tips were for. She said they were saving up for a better fiddle. So I put twenty dollars in the case, and so did half the market that morning. Two weeks later, she showed up with a beautiful new fiddle and a sign: "THANK YOU, MARKET!"