The old fiddler took a fresh chew of long, green tobacco, and rosined
his bow. He glided off into "Hop light ladies, your cake's all dough,"
and then I heard the watch dog's honest bark. I heard the guinea's merry
"pot-rack." I heard a cock crow. I heard the din of happy voices in the
"big house" and the sizz and songs of boiling kettles in the kitchen.
It was an old time quilting--the May-day of the glorious ginger cake and
cider era of the American Republic; and the needle was mightier than the
sword. The pen of Jefferson announced to the world, the birth of the
child of the ages; the sword of Washington defended it in its cradle,
but it would have perished there had it not been for the brave women of
that day who plied the needle and made the quilts that warmed it, and
who nursed it and rocked it through the perils of its infancy, into
the strength of a giant. The quilt was attached to a quadrangular frame
suspended from the ceiling; and the good women sat around it and quilted
the live-long day, and were courted by the swains between stitches. At
sunset the quilt was always finished; a cat was thrown into the center
of it, and the happy maiden nearest to whom the escaping "kitty-puss"
passed was sure to be the first to marry.
Then followed the groaning supper table, surrounded by giggling
girls, bashful young men and gossipy old matrons who monopolized the
conversation. There was a warm and animated discussion among the old
ladies as to what was the most delightful product of the garden.
One old lady said, that so "fur" as she was "consarned," she preferred
the "per-turnip"--another preferred the "pertater"--another the
"cow-cumber," and still another voted "ingern" king. But suddenly a wise
looking old dame raised her spectacles and settled the whole question by
observing: "Ah, ladies, you may talk about yer per-turnips, and your
pertaters, and your passnips and other gyardin sass, but the sweetest
wedgetable that ever melted on these ol' gums o' mine is the 'possum."
At length the feast was ended, the old folks departed and the fun and
frolic began in earnest at the quilting. Old uncle "Ephraham" was an old
darkey in the neighborhood, distinguished for calling the figures for
all the dances, for miles and miles around. He was a tall, raw-boned,
angular old darkey with a very bald head, and a great deal of white in
his eyes. He had thick, heavy lips and a very flat nose. I will tell
you a little story of uncle "Ephraham." He lived alone in his cabin,
as many of the old time darkeys lived, and his 'possum dog lived with
him. One evening old uncle "Ephraham" came home from his labors and
took his 'possum dog into the woods and soon caught a fine, large,
fat 'possum. He brought him home and dressed him; and then he slipped
into his master's garden and stole some fine, large, fat sweet
potatoes--("Master's nigger, Master's taters,") and he washed the
potatoes and split them and piled them in the oven around the 'possum.
He set the oven on the red hot coals and put the lid on, and covered
it with red hot coals, and then sat down in the corner and nodded and
breathed the sweet aroma of the baking 'possum, till it was done. Then
he set it out into the middle of the floor, and took the lid off, and
sat down by the smoking 'possum and soliloquized: "Dat's de fines' job
ob bakin' 'possum I evah has done in my life, but dat 'possum's too
hot to eat yit. I believes I'll jis lay down heah by 'im an' take a nap
while he's coolin', an' maybe I'll dream about eat'n 'im, an' den I'll
git up an' eat 'im, an' I'll git de good uv dat 'possum boaf times
dat-a-way." So he lay down on the floor, and in a moment he was sleeping
as none but the old time darkey could sleep, as sweetly as a babe in
its mother's arms. Old Cye was another old darkey in the neighborhood,
prowling around. He poked his head in at "Ephraham's" door ajar, and
took in the whole situation at a glance. Cye merely remarked to himself:
"I loves 'possum myself." And he slipped in on his tip-toes and picked
up the 'possum and ate him from tip to tail, and piled the bones down by
sleeping "Ephraham;" he ate the sweet potatoes and piled the hulls down
by the bones; then he reached into the oven and got his hand full of
'possum grease and rubbed it on "Ephraham's" lips and cheeks and chin,
and then folded his tent and silently stole away. At length "Ephraham"
awoke--"Sho' nuf, sho' nuf--jist as I expected; I dreampt about eat'n
dat 'possum an' it wuz de sweetest dream I evah has had yit." He looked
around, but empty was the oven--"'possum gone." "Sho'ly to de Lo'd,"
said "Ephraham," "I nuvvah eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' about
eat'n 'im." He poked his tongue out--"Yes, dat's 'possum grease sho,--I
s'pose I eat dat 'possum while I wuz a dreamin' about eat'n 'im, but ef
I did eat 'im, he sets lighter on my constitution an' has less influence
wid me dan any 'possum I evah has eat in my bo'n days."
Old uncle "Ephraham" was present at the country dance in all his glory.
He was attired in his master's old claw-hammer coat, a very buff vest,
a high standing collar the corners of which stood out six inches from
his face, striped pantaloons that fitted as tightly as a kid glove, and
he wore number fourteen shoes. He looked as though he were born to call
the figures of the dance. The fiddler was a young man with long legs,
a curving back, and a neck of the crane fashion, embellished with an
Adam's apple which made him look as though he had made an unsuccessful
effort to swallow his own head. But he was a very important personage
at the dance. With great dignity he unwound his bandana handkerchief
from his old fiddle and proceeded to tune for the fray.
Did you never hear a country fiddler tune his fiddle? He tuned, and he
tuned, and he tuned. He tuned for fifteen minutes, and it was like a
melodious frog pond during a shower of rain.
At length uncle "Ephraham" shouted: "Git yo' pardners for a
cow-tillion."
The fiddler struck an attitude, and after countless yelps from his eager
strings, he glided off into that sweet old Southern air of "Old Uncle
Ned," as though he were mauling rails or feeding a threshing machine.
Uncle "Ephraham" sang the chorus with the fiddle before he began to call
the figures of the dance:
"Lay down de shovel an' de hoe--hoe--hoe, hang up de fiddle an'
de bow,
For dar's no mo' work for poor ol' Ned--he's gone whar de good
niggahs go."
Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he began! "Honah yo'
pardnahs! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple for'd an'
back! half right an' leff fru! back agin! swing dem co'nahs--swing yo'
pardnahs! nex' couple for'd an' back! half right and leff fru! back agin!
swing dem co'nahs--swing yo' pardnahs! fust couple to de right--lady in
de centah--han's all around--suhwing!!!--nex' couple suhwing!!! nex'
couple suhwing!!! suh-wing, suh-wing, suh-wing!!!!!!"
[Illustration: UNCLE "EPHRAHAM" CALLING THE FIGURES OF THE DANCE.]
About this time an angry lad who had been jilted by his sweetheart,
shied a fresh egg from without; it struck "Ephraham" square between the
eyes and broke and landed on his upper lip. Uncle "Ephraham" yelled:
"Stop de music--stop de dance--let de whole circumstances of dis
occasion come to a stan' still till I finds out who it is a scram'lin
eggs aroun' heah."
And then the dancing subsided for the candy-pulling.