It wasn’t as cold as I thought, but it was as wet. The horse sneered at me, mocking my pain. ”It’s not his fault that he is tone deaf” an onlooker reported. I knew he was right. A twitsted witch doctor had taught the poor beast that A sharp sounded like a C and that an F sounded like an E flat. I got out of the mud, packed up my fiddle, and gave the horse an apologetic nod. The life of an artist, after all, can be tough and lonely.