I was going to write to you before, how I was getting along, but have
had to study very hard. We’ve been five times. The girls wear slippers
and brown boots and other colors, and white dresses and blue and all
kinds, and long ribbons, and a good many pretty girls go. If girls
didn’t go, I should like to go better. I mean till we know how, for I’d
rather make mistakes when only boys were looking. And I make a good
many, because he says I don’t have time and tune. He says my feet come
down sometimes right square athwart the time. So I watched the rest, and
when they put their feet down, I did mine. But that was a stroke too
late, he said. Said “time and tune waits for no man.” I like to
promenade, because a feller can go it some then. We learn all kinds of
waltzes and redowas and polkas. I can polka with one that knows how.
Whirling round makes me light-headed just as Grandmother said. But I get
over it some. We are going to do the German at the last of it. The worst
of it is cutting across the room to get your partners. He calls out when
we’re all standing up in two rows, “First gentleman take the first
lady!” Now, supposing I’m first gentleman, I have to go way across to
first lady with all of ’em looking, and fix my feet right way, one heel
in the other hollow, and then make my bow, and then she has to make that
kind of kneeling-down bow that girls do, and then we wait till all of
’em get across one by one. Then we take the step a little while, and
then launch off round the hall, polking, or else get into quadrilles.
And if we do we make graces to the partners and the corners. I like
quadrilles best, because you can hop round some and have a good time, if
you have a good partner. You can dance good deal better with a good
partner. Last time I had that one the fellers call “real estate,”
because you can’t move her she don’t ever get ready to start, and when
’t is time to turn stands still as a post.
Dorry and I practise going across after partners, up in our room. You
ought to ’ve seen us yesterday! Dorry was the lady. If he didn’t look
funny! He fixed the table-cloth off the entry table, to make it look
like his mother’s opera-cape, and fastened a great sponge on for a
waterfall, and fizzled out his hair, and had a little tidy on top his
head, and that red bow you sent me right in front of it. Then he stood
out by the window, and kept looking at his opera-cape, and smoothing it
down, and poking his hair, and holding his handkerchief, the way girls
do, and kept whispering, or making believe, to Bubby Short, the way
girls do. Then I went across and made my bow, and he made that
kneeling-down bow, and then we tried to polka redowa, but our boots
tripped us up, and we couldn’t stand up, and laughed so we tumbled down,
and didn’t hear anybody coming till he knocked, and ’t was the teacher,
come to see what the matter was. Not Wedding Cake, but Old Brown Bread,
and he said dancing mustn’t be brought into our studies, and scolded
more, but I saw his eyes laughing, looking at Dorry. One of the boys
tumbled down stairs, doing the graces in the entry, too near the edge,
and it’s forbidden now. Some of the first-class fellers put up a notice
one night in the entry, great printed letters.
[Illustration: NO ADMITTANCE TO THE GRACES]
That owl stands for Minerva. I couldn’t make a very good one because I’m
in such a hurry to do my examples. The goddess of wisdom used to be
named Minerva. She was painted with an owl. I’ve been reading it in the
Classical Dictionary. Dorry and Bubby Short and I have just been to the
Two Betseys to get our gloves sewed up, and the Other Betsey said she
used to dance like a top. Then she held her dress up with her thumbs
and fingers, and took four different kinds of balances. Made us die a
laughing, she hopped up and down so.
Your affectionate Cousin,