A corn-planting Bee.
Plauterkill Clove. May.
The people who inhabit that section of country lying between the
Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River, are undoubtedly the legitimate
descendants of the far-famed Rip Van Winkle. Dutch blood floweth in
their veins, and their names, appearance, manners, are all Dutch, and
Dutch only. The majority of them are engaged in tilling the soil, and as
they seem to be satisfied with a bare competency, the peacefulness of
their lives is only equalled by their ignorance of books, and the world
at large. The height of their ambition is to enjoy a frolic, and what
civilized people understand by that term, they designate a Bee. Not only
have they their wedding and funeral Bees, but they commemorate their
agricultural labours with a Bee, and of these, the Corn-Planting Bee,
which I am about to describe, is a fair specimen.
A certain old Dutchman of my acquaintance had so long neglected the
field where he intended to plant his corn, that he found it necessary to
retrieve his reputation by getting up a Bee. He therefore immediately
issued his verbal invitations, and at two o’clock on the appointed day,
about seventy of his neighbours, including men and women, made their
appearance at his dwelling, each one of them furnished with a hoe and a
small bag to carry the seed. After supplying his guests with all they
wanted in the way of spiritual drink, my friend gave the signal, and
shouldering a large hoe started off for the field of action, closely
followed by his neighbours, who fell to work lustily. The field was
large, but as the planters were numerous, it was entirely planted at
least two hours before sunset, when the party was disbanded, with the
express understanding resting upon their minds that they should invite
their children to the dance, which was to take place in the evening at
the Bee-giver’s residence.
The house of my farmer friend having been originally built for a tavern,
it happened to contain a large ball-room, and on this occasion it was
stripped of its beds and bedding, and the walls thereof decked from top
to bottom with green branches and an occasional tallow candle, and
conspicuous at one end of the hall was a refreshment establishment, well
supplied with pies, gingerbread, molasses, candy and cigars, with an
abundance of coloured alcohols.
The number of young men and women who came together on the occasion was
about one hundred, and while they were trimming themselves for the
approaching dance, the musician, a huge, long-legged and bony Dutchman,
was tuning a rusty fiddle. The thirty minutes occupied by him in this
interesting business were employed by the male portion of the guests in
“wetting their whistles.” The dresses worn on the occasion were
eminently rustic and unique. Those of the gentlemen, for the most part,
were made of a coarse grey cloth, similar to that worn by the residents
on Blackwell’s Island, while the ladies were arrayed in white cotton,
trimmed with a narrow scarlet ribbon. Pumps being out of vogue, cow-hide
boots were worn by the former, and calf brogans by the latter.
All things being now ready, a terribly loud shriek came from the poor
little fiddle, and the clattering of heels commenced, shaking the
building to its very foundation. “On with the dance, let joy be
unconfined,” seemed to be the motto of all present; and from the start,
there seemed to be a strife between the male and the female dancers, as
to who should leap the highest and make the most noise. Desperate were
the efforts of the musician, as he toiled away upon his instrument,
keeping discord with his heels; and every unusual wail of the fiddle was
the forerunner of a profuse perspiration, which came rolling off of the
fiddler’s face to the floor. And then the joyous delirium of the
musician was communicated to the dancers, and as the dance proceeded,
their efforts became still more desperate; the women wildly threw back
their hair, and many of the men took off their coats, and rolled up
their shirt-sleeves for the purpose of keeping cool. In spite of every
effort, however, the faces of the dancers became quite red with the
excitement, and the hall was filled with a kind of heated fog, in which
the first “break-down” of the evening concluded.
Then followed the refreshment scene. The men drank whisky and smoked
cigars, while the women feasted upon mince-pies, drank small beer, and
sucked molasses candy. Some of the smaller men, or boys, who were too
lazy to dance, sneaked off into an out-of-the-way room for the purpose
of pitching pennies; while a few couples, who were victims to the tender
passion, retired to some cozy nook, to bask unobserved in each other’s
smiles.
But now the screeching fiddle is again heard above the murmur of talking
and laughing voices, and another rush is made for the sanded floor.
Another dance is there enjoyed, differing from the one already described
only in its increased extravagance. After sawing away for a long time,
as if for dear life, the musician is politely requested to play a new
tune. Promptly does he assent to the proposition, but having started on
a fresh key, he soon falls into the identical strain, which had kept him
busy for the previous hour; so that the philosophic listener is
compelled to conclude that the fiddler either cannot play more than one
tune, or that he has a particular passion for the monotonous and
nameless one to which he so closely clings. And thus, with many
indescribable variations does the ball continue throughout the entire
night.
I did not venture to trip the “light fantastic toe” on the occasion in
question, but my enjoyment as a calm spectator was very amusing and
decidedly original. Never before had I seen a greater amount of labour
performed by men and women in the same time. I left this interesting
assembly about midnight, fully satisfied with what I had seen and heard;
but I was afterwards told that I missed more than “half the fun.”
When the music was loudest, so it appears, and the frenzy of the dance
at its climax, a select party of Dutch gentlemen were suddenly seized
with an appetite for some more substantial food than had yet been given
them. They held a consultation on the important subject, and finally
agreed to ransack the garret and cellar of their host for the purpose of
satisfying their natural desires. In the former place they found a good
supply of dried beef, and in the latter, a few loaves of bread and a jar
of rich cream, upon which they regaled themselves without favour, but
with some fear. The giver of the Bee subsequently discovered what had
been done, and though somewhat more than “three sheets in the wind”
slyly sent for a pair of constables, who soon made their appearance, and
arrested the thieving guests, who were held to bail in the sum of fifty
dollars each. I was also informed that the dance was kept up until six
o’clock in the morning, and that the appearance of my friend’s
establishment, and the condition of his guests at seven o’clock, was
ridiculous in the extreme. A small proportion of the Bee-party only had
succeeded in starting for home, so that the number who, from excess of
drinking and undue fatigue had retired to repose, was not far from three
score and ten. The sleeping accommodation of the host was limited, and
the consequence was, that his guests had to shift for themselves, as
they best could. The floors of every room in the house, including the
pantries, were literally covered with men and women; some of them
moaning with a severe head-ache, some breathing audibly in a deep sleep,
and others snoring in the loudest and most approved style. By twelve
o’clock, the interesting company had stolen off to their several homes,
and the Corn-Planting Bee, among the Catskills, was at an end.