Winter upon us.--The Roosters in the early Morning.--The
Blue-Jays and the Squirrels.--The Improvident Turkey.--The
Domestic Hearth, and who occupied it.--The Old Dog.--The
Blessed Old Mail-Horse.--The Newspapers.--Our
Come-to-Tea.--Mrs. Brown, her Arrival and
Experiences.--Entree of Bird, Beagles & Co.--Conflicting
Elements, and how Ike Turtle assimilated all.--Gratifying
Consequences.
My little family, that I have spoken of, were quietly nestled away in the
log hut, and winter was now upon us. The days came and went, and were
marked by light and darkness, and our own domestic joys. There were no
startling events to disturb any person's serenity--no rise or fall of
stocks--no fires--no crashes in business--no downfall of pride--no bustle
in the streets about the latest news--no nothing. The world moved on as
monotonous as the tick-tick of a clock.
The gray of each morning was first heralded by a famous rooster, which I
had imported from the east. He blew his clarion voice at about four, and I
used to lie and hear its echoes wander away off through the streets of
Puddleford, until they finally expired in the wilderness. He was usually
answered by some half-awakened cock, whose drowsy, smothered crow was quite
ludicrous. Then he would give another blast--and get, usually, a snappish
answer from some quarter, saying as well as it could be said--"Well, I
know it--what of it?" Pretty soon, a braggadocio fellow would belch forth
in a coarse, sullen strain--"I've been-up-these-_two_-hours." This was
followed, often, by the cracked voice of some nervous old fellow, away in
another direction, declaring, "I rather guess you _h--a--i--n--t_." And so
one after another, strain was added to strain, until the whole orchestra
were blowing their horns in the face of opening day.
At sunrise, the blue-jays and other birds gathered about the door and
garden, to pick the dry seeds that the weeds were shedding on the earth.
What are snow birds? Where do they live? See them chirping in yonder ray of
sunlight--darting hither and thither, like motes in a beam of light. See
them go whirling through the tempest, like angel spirits, beautiful in the
very midst of the storm. What are they? Do they sleep on the wings of the
wind, or hide themselves in a scroll of snow? How is it that these little
singing harps live on amid such dreary scenes? The blue-jays, however, were
very petulant. Their gorgeous summer plumage was exceedingly mussed, and
they went about from bush to bush, and tree to tree, screaming and fretting
at each other and themselves. They acted like so many Siberian prisoners,
who were forced to brave the blasts as the penalty of some crime they had
committed.
Sometimes, a keen, frosty night would be succeeded by a still, sunny day,
when the eaves pattered their sleepy music, and the cows strayed away into
the forest, as though they smelt approaching spring--when the cats flew out
of the house, and chased each other up into the trees, and the dog went
away by himself, wandering along the river-banks for reasons known only to
himself.
These were visiting days, holidays, jubilee days, for those animals that
were housed in trees, and burrowed in the earth. Go forth into the woods.
You may, on such a day, see the squirrel push out his head from the door of
his castle, where he has been confined for a month, and cautiously look
over the landscape--then dart in again. Soon he pushes himself out farther,
and farther, and timidly glides down to the foot of the tree. Then he tries
the snow, and then again, and finally goes cantering to the nearest stump,
and chirruping, up he goes with a flirt, throws his tail over his back,
sits down, and breaks forth into a burst of song.
Do you believe that squirrel remembers his last summer rambles in those
woods--yon rivulet where he drank, now sleeping beneath its silver
frost-work, and chanting its low, muffled dirge--yon icy knoll, that stood,
last June, a pyramid of flowers--yon hickory where he harvested his nuts?
Is his song for the present or the past?
Look a little farther--the solemn tread of the turkey--who is busy
disinterring some of the buried mast of autumn. Such a day is a bright page
in the winter life of the turkey. She comes forth from beneath the roots of
upturned trees, from thickets or hollow logs, where she has been so long
cowering and starving, to hail the blessed warmth. She dreamed away the
summer, stalking about from wood to stream, and stream to wood--she passed
the provident squirrel often, in October, and saw him roll in his winter
stores, but she didn't know why; and now she is shovelling the snow,
scattering it right and left with her feet, with a melancholy twit! twit!
to get a kernel of bread.
Farther on is a little gorge sloping up from the brook, and on such days
the snows melt off, and the banks grow warm, and the green grass shines as
brightly as it did in May. It is soft and spring-like _there_. The sunbeams
seem to be all tangled together in that spot. There are clusters of winter
birds sporting in this temple, and occasionally one breaks forth with a
note or two of her last June's song, as though she were just twanging her
harp to try its strings. They think those tangled sunbeams are the footfall
of April, and so they chirrup, and flutter, and bow to them, and seem to
ask where gentle May is, and when she is coming with her music and flowers.
Sometimes the fog from the river would freeze upon the trees during a
night, and the sun would rise upon a forest all burst out into a white
bloom. As the sun rose higher, the little particles glittered and flashed,
and then it was a forest of silver--every shrub, every bush, every tree,
was silver. The woods were a frozen poem--written in a night by invisible
fingers, to be read for an hour or two, and then scattered away in shining
scales, forever. These natural changes and beauties were all that there
were to attract attention, and arrest our out-door thoughts. How different
is all this from the life of a resident of some large city--where the life
of a man is read in the street--and where each day shifts its pictures with
its revolution, like the changing colors of a kaleidoscope!
In-doors, however, was the domestic hearth. There were joys there that knew
no winter. Wife and children--how many? I said _three_--but were there not
more? There was the babe, the creeping infant, the tottering child, in
each. The portraits of half a dozen children were daguerreotyped on my soul
as I looked at one. But a part were dead!--the babe had died in the infant,
and the infant in the child--not died, either, but one grace had faded
into another, one beauty had risen upon the ruins of another, until the
child was born where the infant perished, we know not when nor how. Instead
of two, I always felt that I had a family of little ones about me.
And then, that old dog that had been with us for years, and shared our
fortunes and misfortunes, always the same, under all circumstances--he was
one of the family. He used to pioneer the children a half a mile to school,
and wag his tail, and bid them "good morning," as he left them at the door.
He was also there in waiting, at night, to escort them home again. He used
to walk around, over the farm, and examine this thing and that, as though
he was half proprietor of the premises. He used to sleep during the long
winter evenings by the fire, his nose between his fore paws, his hind legs
stretched out full length, and dream of scouring the woods--first a tremor!
then a twitch! then a bark, and a leap! and looking up, and finding all a
sham, away he would walk under the table, overwhelmed with mortification.
This dog never made any acquaintance among the Puddlefordians, nor _their_
dogs. He always stood aloof on his dignity, and if either approached too
near, warned them away with a low growl. He was a noble Newfoundland, and
prided himself upon his ancestry.
But there are little threads of beauty that penetrate every household,
wherever it may be, and warm the heart. Those thoughts, and kind words, and
remembrances, that fly back and forth, hundreds of miles, and keep the
poorest hovel all a-glow. They are so many rays that converge there, and
make a star. That sleepy old horse that brought in the mail once a week was
a _blessed_ old horse, and bore upon his back treasures that far
outweighed gold. That mail-bag, like all mail-bags, was full of
passions--love, hatred, and revenge--all kinds of courtesy, civility,
politeness, sycophancy--some coarseness and vulgarity, too; and when it
burst, like a bomb, in the post-office, it covered some persons with a
rainbow light, gave others a cold drench, overpowered still others, and
turned many into so many raging madmen. The imprisoned conflicting elements
that jogged along up hill and down dale, so cosily on that old horse's
back, made strange work when they were let loose.
Mail days were bright days in our calendar. They came only once a week--but
that day always brought something. We then sat down, wife, children, and
all, and posted up the books of the past. The letters brushed off the dust
from the pictures of distant friends that were hanging in our souls--and
those pictures talked. Some were sick; some were married; some had gone to
one place, some to another. They were sailing on the great current of life
as well as we. We were all together, yet apart; and these letters were only
a shaking of hands across the flood that divided us--the shuttle that wove
our passage into one.
And then the newspapers were something more to us than ever before. The jar
and roar of the world, like music, was softened and mellowed by distance.
Advertisements grew valuable; and our little daughter Kate absolutely read
a patent-medicine notice from end to end without smiling.
During the winter, my wife made a little "come-to-tea" gathering, for the
purpose, as she said, of getting "better acquainted with her neighbors." We
were living, as I have stated before, a little out of the village of
Puddleford, and our opportunities for seeing its society were not very
good. She invited Squire Longbow and wife (of course); Bates and wife;
Turtle and wife; Mrs. Sonora Brown, Tom Beagle and his clique--in fact, it
was got up "without distinction of party," as our house was neutral ground,
never having thus far been the scene of a social fight. I set apart the day
to attend to our guests.
The first lady who made her appearance was Mrs. Sonora Brown, who had
walked out from Puddleford alone, and who hove in sight, pursuant to her
invitation to come to tea, at about two P. M.
The snow was falling fast, and the wind quite rough, but Mrs. Sonora didn't
mind that. She was covered with one of those plaid cloaks that were made
twenty years ago, had on a pair of heavy brogan boots (sensible woman), a
tight hood, and over that a red and white cotton handkerchief tied under
her chin. The old lady sailed along through the gale as calmly and stately
as a seventy-four. When she reached the door, she rapped and stamped, and
gave a loud hawk, all of which she undoubtedly thought ought to announce
her presence.
My wife opened the door. "Well," exclaimed Sonora, "you see I've come,"
giving her cloak a hearty shake, and scattering the snow about her.
"Glad--very glad to see you," replied my wife.
"I know'd you would be--that's just what I told 'em," continued Sonora;
"you ain't so dreadfully stuck up out here as some folks tries to make
believe, arter all."
"We are like most other people, I suppose," said my wife.
Sonora took off her hood, when her eyes fell upon me. "So, this your man?
I'd hearn tell on him, but never see'd him afore, near by--and there are
the children! and that is your big looking-glass they tell'd about! The
dear massy on us," she exclaimed, "how nice!"
"Why, Mrs. Brown," said I, "you must recollect me: I was a juryman on the
trial between Filkins and Beadle."
"Come to take a good look at you, and so you was; but I was so frustered
that day that I didn't know which eend I stood on. How pesky sassy them
'turneys-at-la' are!" continued Mrs. Brown, as she seated herself in the
big rocking-chair.
"Mrs. Brown, have you lived long in this country?" I asked.
"Why, bless your soul, yes! Didn't you know that? We come in from the 'Hio
twenty years ago, and lived her 'fore there was anybody, nor nothing but
bears and catamounts."
"How, in the world, did you manage to get through the country twenty years
ago?" I asked.
"Well, it _was_ a pretty orful time," said the old lady; "it almost brings
the tears into my eyes now to think on't. There was my husband and four
children--Lem and Jim, and Molly and Bessy. Lem was about twenty, and Jim
about fifteen, and Molly and Bessy ten and twelve; and we were all piled
inter a big cover'd wagon, drawn by two yoke of cattle, with what little
furniter we had; and in this kinder way we started for--I didn't know
where."
"Where did you eat and sleep?" inquired I.
"We bunk'd in the wagon nights, and camp'd out to eat; and so we travelled
for two months."
"But you got through all safe?" I said.
"No, we didn't," said she, heaving a sigh; "little Bessy died" (she wiped
away a tear); "she got the measles somewhere on the road; and everybody was
afraid of catchin' on 'em; and nobody would come near us, and so we had to
stop and take care of her in the wagon the best way we could. We done all
we could think of, but she kept growin' worse and worse, 'till one mornin'
she died."
"She died!" I repeated, feeling sad.
"And we had to bury her in a strange place--a high knoll in the woods by
the road-side--and go away and leave her there alone. O, Mr. ----," she
exclaimed, "I've dream'd a thousand times of that spot in the woods: what
wouldn't I give if I could go and find it!"
"What did you do when you first arrived here?" I inquired.
"Why, it was all trees all over, everywhere, then. There warn't any
houzens, nor any roads to travel on, nor no white folks but Venison Styles,
and some other hunters who are gone away now; nor anything to live on; and
nothin' to be heard nights but the varmints screamin'," said Mrs. Brown,
laying down her knitting-work, and shoving up her spectacles with a
convulsive twitch, for she was getting eloquent. "There warn't a pound of
meat for fifty miles round--no pork for love nor money--and so we cut down
a place, and built a log shanty, and liv'd on deer meat, for deers were as
thick as hops all over."
"And what then?" said I.
"The next spring," she continued, "we cleared a couple of acres, and put
it into taters, turnips, beets, and all kind-er garden sass; and then we
girdled the trees on ten or twelve acres more, and in the fall we put this
inter wheat, and in a year or so we began to live."
"And that large farm you live on, Mrs. Brown, is _the_ spot you first
settled? Where are your children now?"
"They are round yet," said Sonora. "Jim teaches school, and spec'lates, and
fiddles some, and _can_ doctor if he likes. Jim is the only genus in our
family: he's as smart as _litenin'_; Lem is more staid and sober-like. He
allers took to hum chores, fod'ring cattle, and such like-er things. He
married Squire Nolet's darter; and they are pretty big folks--got carpets
in their bed-rooms, and all _over_ the house--and he is now settled on a
farm out on Horse-Neck Plains; and Jim is now doin' fust-rate."
"What became of Molly?"
"Molly made a bad go on't. She married a trav'ling singing-master--and I
_do_ suppose," she exclaimed, "he is one of the most good-for-_nothin'
dogs_ in the whole settlement. I don't see how in _airth_ Molly ever took a
notion to him: he hain't got no larnin'--he won't work--and _I_ don't like
his _singin'_. I don't see what such critters are made for." (The old lady
heaved a long sigh.)
There was a rap at the door, and Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Beagle, and Mrs. Snipes
came in. These three ladies were inseparable. They visited together, and
warred, as we have seen, upon the "up-street aristocracy" together. Mrs.
Bird, who was, as I have stated, a great sozzle about home, was now decked
out with as many ribbons and streamers as a Maypole. She had mounted on her
back a most tremendous bustle, and she bowed, and bobbed, and twitched
about, as she saluted my wife, with all the airs and friskiness of a young
girl. Mrs. Beagle was quite reserved.
"Why, bless you, Mrs. ----, how cold 'tis!" said Mrs. Bird. "My dear
husband couldn't hardly think of lettin' me go out. Bird is _so_
particular, and allers so scared for fear'd sunthin' will happen to me.
'Wife,' said Bird to me one day--'wife,' sez he, 'you musn't go out with
them are thin shoes on--'t'il be the death on you,' sez he. 'O, shaw!' sez
I. 'Bird, you're allers bor'ring trouble.' 'No, I ain't, nother,' sez he.
'Byme-by, you'll get a mortal sickness in your lungs, and it'll run you
inter the inflammation, and then you're gone.' But I allers laughs at Bird
when he talks so. Why, of all things," continued Mrs. Bird, looking round,
if here ain't Mrs. Brown. "Are you well, Aunt Sonora, to-day?"
"Pretty sorter," answered Mrs. Brown.
"Hain't had the rheumatiz, nor shakin' ager, nor any of that buzzing in
your head?"
"None to speak on."
"How is your old man, Mrs. Brown?"
"Well, he's gruntin' some--but so's to be about."
"Did he catch that feller who ow'd him and run'd away?"
"Not's I ever heerd on," replied Mrs. Brown.
"Why, what a nice caliker you're got on, Mrs. Brown; was it one-and-three
or one-and-six?"
"I b'lieve it was somewher's _along_ there," said Mrs. Brown.
"It's jest like Charity Beadle's, only Charity had hers made up with the
figur' runnin' down."
About sundown, and in the midst of Mrs. Bird's conversation--for her tongue
kept in full play--Squire Longbow and wife announced themselves by a rap.
Their arrival spiked Mrs. Bird's battery. After making a cold, scornful,
and exceedingly low and ironical bow to them, she retired one side with
Mrs. Beadle and Mrs. Snipes.
Squire Longbow had on his best rig--a suit of grayish homespun. His
shirt-collar was unusually tall, and he had put a double bow-knot in his
neckcloth of white cotton. The shade over his lost eye was very clean and
bright. He really looked like a Justice.
Longbow said he was glad to get out--that the business of justice was
wearin' him to death.
"Much on your mind, Squire, now?" I inquired.
"All the time--all the time sunthin'. There's a pin't of law to be settled
in that case 'tween Whippum against Snappett. Snappett's nigger man druv
Snappett's cattle over Whippum's dog, and broke Whippum's leg--I mean
Whippum's _dog's_ leg; and Whippum's dog's goin' to die--a very valuable
dog--cost Whippum six shillings last spring--good for cattle, hogs,
anything--children thought a good deal on him; and so Whippum swore
Snappett should pay for the dog, if he spent his farm to get it."
"I declare," exclaimed I.
"Yes, he said it in my offis last week; but whether to sue Snappett or the
nigger is the p'int. If we sue the nigger, he arn't good; if we sue
Snappett, twarn't he that druv the oxen."
"Join the nigger and the white man together in one suit," said I.
"_T-h-u-n-der!_" exclaimed the Squire, looking wildly at me--"can't jine
niggers and white men together by _our_ constitution--Story's dead agin it.
They'd come in on t'other side, and squash everything inter pieces."
"Can it be possible?" said I.
"Yes-sir-_ee_!" said the Squire; "they _would_ that--and have me 'peal'd up
to the higher courts in a jiffy.
"And then," continued the Squire, "Tibbits and Jenkins have got inter
trouble. Jenkins got mad at Tibbits 'bout somethin' a while ago, and so he
went down to Tibbits' house, his gun on his shoulder, full-er wrath--and
spyin' a favorit' cow of Tibbits in the barn-yard, jest drew up, and popped
her over--Tibbits run'd out, grabbl'd the gun out of Jenkins' hand, and
smashed it up fine on a tree--then they had a fight, and Jenkins bung'd up
Tibbits, and Tibbits bung'd up Jenkins, so neither on 'em could see
much--now Tibbits wants to bring suit for the value of his cow."
"Do tell now if he does," exclaimed Aunt Sonora, who had been listening to
the Squire's story; "I tell'd our folks at hum, yesterday, that I hadn't
any doubt but Puddleford would be turned _en_side out 'bout that."
"Yes!" continued the Squire, "Tibbits wants to bring suit--but I tell'd
Tibbits that I wanted to know how much the cow was worth. 'Fourteen
dollars,' said he. 'How much was the rifle worth?' ''Bout the same,' said
he. 'Jest a set-off,' said I; 'the rifle pays for the cow, and the cow for
the rifle.' Tibbits said that warn't la', and swore, and said I should
issue the writ. I threatened to commit him for contempt. He said he'd get a
_ramdamus_ (mandamus) onter me, and there the matter stands."
"Well," said I, "you _do_ have trouble, Squire--I'd resign."
"Nobody to fill my place," said the Squire, pushing his arms down into his
breeches pockets and stretching out his legs and throwing his eyes up to
the ceiling--"nobody that understands the _staterts_."
"There's Ike Turtle," said I.
"Ike arn't cool enough--it takes a _cool_ man for justis in these parts--a
man that arn't afear'd of nothin'."
"Just so," said I. Here was a rap, and Ike Turtle, Mr. and Mrs. Bates, and
many others, entered.
We had a house full nearly. The elements, as I have said, were not
harmonious. The Birds, and Swipes, and Beagles, and their friends were
huddled together by themselves in one part of the room, and Longbow and his
friends in another. You might hear whispers and suppressed laughs, and Ohs!
and Ahs! from the circle of Mrs. Bird, and side-looks and other
manifestations of uneasiness.
Ike Turtle, whose knowledge of human nature was equal to his humor, after
eying the group a while, concluded to break into and scatter it, if
possible. So turning around--"Mrs. Bird, you look un-_com_only well,
to-day," he said.
"Think I _do_," replied Mrs. Bird, pettishly.
"Why, you look as fresh as a new-blown rose."
Mrs. Bird held down her head, and actually appeared confused. Soon she
gathered courage to speak. "Why, Mr. Turtle, how can you think so? I'm an
old woman."
"Not so old, arter all," said Ike; "you've taken good care of your sperits
and complexion."
"Why, Mrs. Bird don't use _sperits_!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, looking down
over her spectacles, at Ike, with horror.
"Not them kind," said Ike--"but her nat'ral sperits, I mean. Now,"
continued Ike, "here's Squire Longbow, past fifty, hearty as a buck,
full-er fire, and can kick up his heels as high as his head--all owin' to
his sperits. Don't you think so, Mrs. Bird?"
Mrs. Bird said she didn't know much about Squire Longbow.
"O, nonsense now--yes, you do--liv'd neighbor to him in Puddleford these
ten years or more. But if there's any doubt about it, I'll just introduce
you. Squire Longbow," continued Ike, rising and pointing to Mrs.
Bird--"Mrs. Bird--Mrs. Bird, Squire Longbow. And here's Mrs. Beagle and
Mrs. Swipes--all of Puddleford--maybe you don't know 'em--all old
residenters--come in when the country was new, and have cut their own
fodder ever since."
The Squire rose, bowed, and said--he "know'd 'em all, and was glad to meet
'em looking so fust rate."
"Now," said Ike, "I've introduced you, enjoy yourselves."
This movement of Ike's broke the ice. The clique relaxed their brows, and
conversation grew more general.
"Is Lavinny at school this winter?" inquired Mrs. Beagles of the Squire.
"Yes, marm, she is--studying 'stronomy--got inter the fix'd stars last
week--and will be onter Capercorn, byme-by."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Aunt Sonora, her knitting-needles rattling with
surprise, "how _did_ she get out--got into the stars?"
"Yes, marm," continued the Squire, "she larned herself inter 'em--and she
knows all 'bout 'em--what they're there for--and who put 'em there--jest
as much as though she'd lived six months on the spot. And then, Mrs.
Beagle, she's up to her eyes in hist'ry. She talks 'bout the Caesars and
'Gustuses jest as though she'd allers know'd 'em. Tells all about how
Christopher Columbus came over with the Puritans and settled onter Plymouth
rock, 'cause Richard Third, king-er Spain, got mad at 'em, 'cause they
would kiss the Pope's toe."
"Dear me suz, I wanter know," exclaimed Mrs. Brown again.
"And then she's at the head in the gography class--she's draw'd a map of
the Cannibal Islands--and on one on 'em, Capt'n Cook lies with his head
off, crying for marcy--and she says, down onter the squator it don't never
snow, nor nothin', and it's hotter than blue-blazes, in the winter--and
when it thunders and litenins, it tears everything inter pieces--she's
goin' ahead wonderfully, Mrs. Beagle."
"Well, now, that _is satisfying_," said Mrs. Beagle. "It does one so much
good to see one's children get larnin'!"
"That's just what I tell'd Mr. Brown when Jim was first born," said Aunt
Sonora. "I tell'd him the boy had genus, for there never was one of our
family that didn't. 'But you've got-ter give him schooling,' said I, 'to
bring it out.' And so he did--and you orter to have see'd how he run'd to
books and newspapers. When he was fifteen, he tell'd the old man, as he
called his father, he orter to go to district-school--(he was a wonderful
boy; know'd everything, then)--that he was way ahind the age. Then he went
off a roamin', a seekin' his fortin'--and when he com'd back, nobody would
know'd him--he was _so_ improved--he fling'd his legs onter to the stove,
and smoked and chewed, and talk'd about furrin parts--and didn't take any
notice of the old man--said how the old man didn't know nothin'--(warn't he
genus, Squire Longbow?)--he wouldn't work any, because he said genuses
never work'd--that they wouldn't be genuses if they did--he made the old
man give him a fast horse, and a p'inter dog, and a gun, all kivered with
silver plates, and then he rid, and hunted, and courted--(warn't he
genus?)--he courted Squire Boson's darter, and Mr. Fogg's two darters, and
all the gals in the western settlement, till he finally settled down, as I
was tellin' Mr. ---- a while ago, into jest as much of a genus as ever--the
dear massy on us, what won't larnin' do?"
"'S'prisin' boy," answered the Squire.
The conversation ran on about everything, until Ike had really broken up
the clique of Bird & Co., and one would have thought there never had been a
social war in Puddleford. There never lived a mortal, I believe, who could
hold out against the humor of Ike Turtle. He magnetized all who came within
his influence. He was shrewd, keen, far-seeing, full of good sense, and had
a stock of fun that was positively inexhaustible. Ike, in reality, never
cared about the antipathy of Bird, Beagle & Co.--all their malice and
slander had never "ruffled a feather," as he used to say. He was amusing
_himself_ in the experiments he had been making to bring the factions
together; but he did not in fact care whether they ever came together or
not.
About nine o'clock in the evening, and after "supper," as Mrs. Sonora
called it, had passed off, Ike inquired of me if my fiddle was in the
house, as he intended to have Squire Longbow, Aunt Sonora, Mrs. Bird,
Swipes, and "all hands," dancing before the company broke up.
The fiddle was produced--rather an asthmatic instrument--that strayed into
the country among my lumber, and was somewhat out of order. Ike tinkered it
up with his jack-knife, until it finally emitted a few strains of something
like music. He then played "Over the Hills," "Fisher's Hornpipe," and
several other lively airs, until old Squire Longbow unconsciously began to
rap the time with his heels, and Mrs. Bird to grow quite nettlesome.
Ike finally bowed himself up to Mrs. Bird, sawing away all the time on his
fiddle--and declared that "nothing on airth would do him so much good as a
country dance, and she must consent to walk straight out without wincing."
Mrs. Bird looked pleased and provoked, by turns, but she finally took Ike's
arm, and was duly placed on the floor. Squire Longbow and Mrs. Sonora were
next hauled out by Ike; Mrs. Swipes and Sile Bates, and so on, until he had
united (with the exception of Squire Longbow and partner) the most
discordant elements of Puddleford.
The dance opened, Ike himself fiddling, shuffling, and calling off. He and
Mrs. Bird went down in the middle, up outside, and crossed over, Ike's feet
playing all the while like drum-sticks to the music of "Fisher's Hornpipe,"
which he was sawing off with inconceivable rapidity, while Mrs. Bird
followed after him, panting and blowing, without much regard to time or
tune.
Squire Longbow and Mrs. Sonora trotted through their parts--Mrs. Sonora
having declared, before she took the floor, "that she never was one of them
are dancing critters, but she'd try and hobble through the figger the best
she could."
By and by the general "wind-up" came, when "all hands" went into it heart
and soul. Ike's fiddle, and Ike's voice, and the pattering of feet, were
all that was heard. "Right and left!" "Cross over!" "Don't run agin Mrs.
Bird, Squire Longbow!" "A leetle faster, Mrs. Swipes!" "_Pardners_ keep
clus arter one another!" "Don't cave!" "Not quite so much cavortin' down
thar!" exclaimed Ike, giving expression to his words with his bow, when at
last he drew the whole to a close by a long, high squeak, and the company
rushed to their seats puffing, and covered with perspiration.
This movement of Ike's was a masterly performance. He had actually danced
with Mrs. Bird, one of his bitterest enemies. He had melted the two hostile
cliques of Puddleford into one. His flattery and music had accomplished
this, and it was productive of lasting good, for the war from this time
began to decline in Puddleford, and the hostile cliques were finally
dissolved.
Perhaps the reader is disposed to smile at my description of a Puddleford
tea-party. Perhaps he thinks the ingenuousness of Aunt Sonora, the
free-and-easy humor of Ike Turtle, the peevish jealousy of Mrs. Bird, are
the fruit simply of what he terms "western vulgarity." Don't be too fast,
my friend. You belong, perhaps, to a society that wears a mask--made up,
nevertheless, of "envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness." _Your_
Mrs. Bird is just as jealous, but for another reason, and with this
difference, too, that _she_ can smile upon her bitterest enemy, when and
where the rules of fashionable life demand it. You've got a Squire Longbow
or two with you in all probability--not dressed in homespun, but
"broadcloth"--one who has been favored by fortune, and no god beside--one
who hums and haws, and looks as wise and solemn as an owl, and to whom,
perhaps, you unconsciously pay homage. We are all alike, dear reader--we
look at your society through the telescope of education and refinement--at
Puddleford, with the naked eye.