CHAPTER IX.
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 thelog hut, and winter was now upon us. The days came and went, and weremarked by light and darkness, and our own domestic joys. There were nostartling events to disturb any person's serenity--no rise or fall ofstocks--no fires--no crashes in business--no downfall of pride--no bustlein the streets about the latest news--no nothing. The world moved on asmonotonous as the tick-tick of a clock.
The gray of each morning was first heralded by a famous rooster, which Ihad imported from the east. He blew his clarion voice at about four, and Iused to lie and hear its echoes wander away off through the streets ofPuddleford, until they finally expired in the wilderness. He was usuallyanswered by some half-awakened cock, whose drowsy, smothered crow was quiteludicrous. Then he would give another blast--and get, usually, a snappishanswer from some quarter, saying as well as it could be said--"Well, Iknow it--what of it?" Pretty soon, a braggadocio fellow would belch forthin a coarse, sullen strain--"I've been-up-these-_two_-hours." This wasfollowed, often, by the cracked voice of some nervous old fellow, away inanother direction, declaring, "I rather guess you _h--a--i--n--t_." And soone after another, strain was added to strain, until the whole orchestrawere blowing their horns in the face of opening day.
At sunrise, the blue-jays and other birds gathered about the door andgarden, 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 ofsunlight--darting hither and thither, like motes in a beam of light. Seethem go whirling through the tempest, like angel spirits, beautiful in thevery midst of the storm. What are they? Do they sleep on the wings of thewind, or hide themselves in a scroll of snow? How is it that these littlesinging harps live on amid such dreary scenes? The blue-jays, however, werevery petulant. Their gorgeous summer plumage was exceedingly mussed, andthey went about from bush to bush, and tree to tree, screaming and frettingat 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 hadcommitted.
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 intothe forest, as though they smelt approaching spring--when the cats flew outof the house, and chased each other up into the trees, and the dog wentaway by himself, wandering along the river-banks for reasons known only tohimself.
These were visiting days, holidays, jubilee days, for those animals thatwere 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 ofhis castle, where he has been confined for a month, and cautiously lookover 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 triesthe 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 thosewoods--yon rivulet where he drank, now sleeping beneath its silverfrost-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 busydisinterring some of the buried mast of autumn. Such a day is a bright pagein the winter life of the turkey. She comes forth from beneath the roots ofupturned trees, from thickets or hollow logs, where she has been so longcowering and starving, to hail the blessed warmth. She dreamed away thesummer, stalking about from wood to stream, and stream to wood--she passedthe provident squirrel often, in October, and saw him roll in his winterstores, 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 daysthe snows melt off, and the banks grow warm, and the green grass shines asbrightly as it did in May. It is soft and spring-like _there_. The sunbeamsseem to be all tangled together in that spot. There are clusters of winterbirds sporting in this temple, and occasionally one breaks forth with anote or two of her last June's song, as though she were just twanging herharp to try its strings. They think those tangled sunbeams are the footfallof April, and so they chirrup, and flutter, and bow to them, and seem toask 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 anight, and the sun would rise upon a forest all burst out into a whitebloom. 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 invisiblefingers, to be read for an hour or two, and then scattered away in shiningscales, forever. These natural changes and beauties were all that therewere to attract attention, and arrest our out-door thoughts. How differentis all this from the life of a resident of some large city--where the lifeof a man is read in the street--and where each day shifts its pictures withits revolution, like the changing colors of a kaleidoscope!
In-doors, however, was the domestic hearth. There were joys there that knewno winter. Wife and children--how many? I said _three_--but were there notmore? There was the babe, the creeping infant, the tottering child, ineach. The portraits of half a dozen children were daguerreotyped on my soulas 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 fadedinto another, one beauty had risen upon the ruins of another, until thechild was born where the infant perished, we know not when nor how. Insteadof 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 ourfortunes and misfortunes, always the same, under all circumstances--he wasone 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 usedto walk around, over the farm, and examine this thing and that, as thoughhe was half proprietor of the premises. He used to sleep during the longwinter evenings by the fire, his nose between his fore paws, his hind legsstretched 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 asham, 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 toonear, warned them away with a low growl. He was a noble Newfoundland, andprided 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, andremembrances, that fly back and forth, hundreds of miles, and keep thepoorest hovel all a-glow. They are so many rays that converge there, andmake a star. That sleepy old horse that brought in the mail once a week wasa _blessed_ old horse, and bore upon his back treasures that faroutweighed gold. That mail-bag, like all mail-bags, was full ofpassions--love, hatred, and revenge--all kinds of courtesy, civility,politeness, sycophancy--some coarseness and vulgarity, too; and when itburst, like a bomb, in the post-office, it covered some persons with arainbow light, gave others a cold drench, overpowered still others, andturned many into so many raging madmen. The imprisoned conflicti
ng elementsthat jogged along up hill and down dale, so cosily on that old horse'sback, made strange work when they were let loose.
Mail days were bright days in our calendar. They came only once a week--butthat day always brought something. We then sat down, wife, children, andall, and posted up the books of the past. The letters brushed off the dustfrom the pictures of distant friends that were hanging in our souls--andthose pictures talked. Some were sick; some were married; some had gone toone place, some to another. They were sailing on the great current of lifeas well as we. We were all together, yet apart; and these letters were onlya shaking of hands across the flood that divided us--the shuttle that woveour passage into one.
And then the newspapers were something more to us than ever before. The jarand roar of the world, like music, was softened and mellowed by distance.Advertisements grew valuable; and our little daughter Kate absolutely reada patent-medicine notice from end to end without smiling.
During the winter, my wife made a little "come-to-tea" gathering, for thepurpose, as she said, of getting "better acquainted with her neighbors." Wewere living, as I have stated before, a little out of the village ofPuddleford, and our opportunities for seeing its society were not verygood. She invited Squire Longbow and wife (of course); Bates and wife;Turtle and wife; Mrs. Sonora Brown, Tom Beagle and his clique--in fact, itwas 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 dayto attend to our guests.
The first lady who made her appearance was Mrs. Sonora Brown, who hadwalked out from Puddleford alone, and who hove in sight, pursuant to herinvitation to come to tea, at about two P. M.
The snow was falling fast, and the wind quite rough, but Mrs. Sonora didn'tmind that. She was covered with one of those plaid cloaks that were madetwenty years ago, had on a pair of heavy brogan boots (sensible woman), atight hood, and over that a red and white cotton handkerchief tied underher chin. The old lady sailed along through the gale as calmly and statelyas a seventy-four. When she reached the door, she rapped and stamped, andgave a loud hawk, all of which she undoubtedly thought ought to announceher 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 makebelieve, 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 arethe children! and that is your big looking-glass they tell'd about! Thedear massy on us," she exclaimed, "how nice!"
"Why, Mrs. Brown," said I, "you must recollect me: I was a juryman on thetrial between Filkins and Beadle."
"Come to take a good look at you, and so you was; but I was so frusteredthat 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 thebig 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 'Hiotwenty years ago, and lived her 'fore there was anybody, nor nothing butbears and catamounts."
"How, in the world, did you manage to get through the country twenty yearsago?" I asked.
"Well, it _was_ a pretty orful time," said the old lady; "it almost bringsthe tears into my eyes now to think on't. There was my husband and fourchildren--Lem and Jim, and Molly and Bessy. Lem was about twenty, and Jimabout fifteen, and Molly and Bessy ten and twelve; and we were all piledinter a big cover'd wagon, drawn by two yoke of cattle, with what littlefurniter we had; and in this kinder way we started for--I didn't knowwhere."
"Where did you eat and sleep?" inquired I.
"We bunk'd in the wagon nights, and camp'd out to eat; and so we travelledfor two months."
"But you got through all safe?" I said.
"No, we didn't," said she, heaving a sigh; "little Bessy died" (she wipedaway a tear); "she got the measles somewhere on the road; and everybody wasafraid of catchin' on 'em; and nobody would come near us, and so we had tostop and take care of her in the wagon the best way we could. We done allwe 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 bythe road-side--and go away and leave her there alone. O, Mr. ----," sheexclaimed, "I've dream'd a thousand times of that spot in the woods: whatwouldn'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 anyhouzens, 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; andnothin' to be heard nights but the varmints screamin'," said Mrs. Brown,laying down her knitting-work, and shoving up her spectacles with aconvulsive twitch, for she was getting eloquent. "There warn't a pound ofmeat for fifty miles round--no pork for love nor money--and so we cut downa place, and built a log shanty, and liv'd on deer meat, for deers were asthick as hops all over."
"And what then?" said I.
"The next spring," she continued, "we cleared a couple of acres, and putit into taters, turnips, beets, and all kind-er garden sass; and then wegirdled the trees on ten or twelve acres more, and in the fall we put thisinter wheat, and in a year or so we began to live."
"And that large farm you live on, Mrs. Brown, is _the_ spot you firstsettled? Where are your children now?"
"They are round yet," said Sonora. "Jim teaches school, and spec'lates, andfiddles some, and _can_ doctor if he likes. Jim is the only genus in ourfamily: he's as smart as _litenin'_; Lem is more staid and sober-like. Heallers took to hum chores, fod'ring cattle, and such like-er things. Hemarried Squire Nolet's darter; and they are pretty big folks--got carpetsin their bed-rooms, and all _over_ the house--and he is now settled on afarm 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 anotion to him: he hain't got no larnin'--he won't work--and _I_ don't likehis _singin'_. I don't see what such critters are made for." (The old ladyheaved a long sigh.)
There was a rap at the door, and Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Beagle, and Mrs. Snipescame in. These three ladies were inseparable. They visited together, andwarred, 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 deckedout with as many ribbons and streamers as a Maypole. She had mounted on herback a most tremendous bustle, and she bowed, and bobbed, and twitchedabout, as she saluted my wife, with all the airs and friskiness of a younggirl. Mrs. Beagle was quite reserved.
"Why, bless you, Mrs. ----, how cold 'tis!" said Mrs. Bird. "My dearhusband 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 withthem are thin shoes on--'t'il be the death on you,' sez he. 'O, shaw!' sezI. '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 youinter the inflammation, and then you're gone.' But I allers laughs at Birdwhen 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 inyour 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-threeor 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 thefigur' runnin' down."
About sundown, and in the midst of Mrs. Bird's conversation--for her tonguekept 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 withMrs. Beadle and Mrs. Snipes.
Squire Longbow had on his best rig--a suit of grayish homespun. Hisshirt-collar was unusually tall, and he had put a double bow-knot in hisneckcloth of white cotton. The shade over his lost eye was very clean andbright. He really looked like a Justice.
Longbow said he was glad to get out--that the business of justice waswearin' 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 settledin that case 'tween Whippum against Snappett. Snappett's nigger man druvSnappett's cattle over Whippum's dog, and broke Whippum's leg--I meanWhippum's _dog's_ leg; and Whippum's dog's goin' to die--a very valuabledog--cost Whippum six shillings last spring--good for cattle, hogs,anything--children thought a good deal on him; and so Whippum sworeSnappett 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 thenigger is the p'int. If we sue the nigger, he arn't good; if we sueSnappett, 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 jineniggers 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 upto the higher courts in a jiffy.
"And then," continued the Squire, "Tibbits and Jenkins have got intertrouble. Jenkins got mad at Tibbits 'bout somethin' a while ago, and so hewent down to Tibbits' house, his gun on his shoulder, full-er wrath--andspyin' a favorit' cow of Tibbits in the barn-yard, jest drew up, and poppedher over--Tibbits run'd out, grabbl'd the gun out of Jenkins' hand, andsmashed it up fine on a tree--then they had a fight, and Jenkins bung'd upTibbits, and Tibbits bung'd up Jenkins, so neither on 'em could seemuch--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 tothe Squire's story; "I tell'd our folks at hum, yesterday, that I hadn'tany doubt but Puddleford would be turned _en_side out 'bout that."
"Yes!" continued the Squire, "Tibbits wants to bring suit--but I tell'dTibbits that I wanted to know how much the cow was worth. 'Fourteendollars,' said he. 'How much was the rifle worth?' ''Bout the same,' saidhe. 'Jest a set-off,' said I; 'the rifle pays for the cow, and the cow forthe rifle.' Tibbits said that warn't la', and swore, and said I shouldissue 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 hisbreeches pockets and stretching out his legs and throwing his eyes up tothe 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--aman that arn't afear'd of nothin'."
"Just so," said I. Here was a rap, and Ike Turtle, Mr. and Mrs. Bates, andmany others, entered.
We had a house full nearly. The elements, as I have said, were notharmonious. The Birds, and Swipes, and Beagles, and their friends werehuddled together by themselves in one part of the room, and Longbow and hisfriends in another. You might hear whispers and suppressed laughs, and Ohs!and Ahs! from the circle of Mrs. Bird, and side-looks and othermanifestations of uneasiness.
Ike Turtle, whose knowledge of human nature was equal to his humor, aftereying the group a while, concluded to break into and scatter it, ifpossible. 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 shegathered courage to speak. "Why, Mr. Turtle, how can you think so? I'm anold woman."
"Not so old, arter all," said Ike; "you've taken good care of your speritsand complexion."
"Why, Mrs. Bird don't use _sperits_!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, looking downover 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' tohis 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 theseten years or more. But if there's any doubt about it, I'll just introduceyou. Squire Longbow," continued Ike, rising and pointing to Mrs.Bird--"Mrs. Bird--Mrs. Bird, Squire Longbow. And here's Mrs. Beagle andMrs. Swipes--all of Puddleford--maybe you don't know 'em--all oldresidenters--come in when the country was new, and have cut their ownfodder 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, andconversation 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 lastweek--and will be onter Capercorn, byme-by."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Aunt Sonora, her knitting-needles rattling withsurprise, "how _did_ she get out--got into the stars?"
"Yes, marm," continued the Squire, "she larned herself inter 'em--and sheknows all 'bout 'em--what they're there for--and who put 'em there--jestas 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 howChristopher Columbus came over with the Puritans and settled onter Plymouthrock, 'cause Richard Third, king-er Spain, got mad at 'em, 'cause theywould 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 ofthe Cannibal Islands--and on one on 'em, Capt'n Cook lies with his headoff, crying for marcy--and she says, down onter the squator it don't neversnow, nor nothin', and it's hotter than blue-blazes, in the winter--andwhen it thunders and litenins, it tears everything inter pieces--she'sgoin' ahead wonderfully, Mrs. Beagle."
"Well, now, that _is satisfying_," said Mrs. Beagle. "It does one so muchgood to see one's children get larnin'!"
"That's just what I tell'd Mr. Brown when Jim was first born," said AuntSonora. "I tell'd him the boy had genus, for there never was one of ourfamily that didn't. 'But you've got-ter give him schooling,' said I, 'tobring it out.' And so he did--and you orter to have see'd how he run'd tobooks and newspapers. When he was fifteen, he tell'd the old man, as hecalled his father, he orter to go to district-school--(he was a wonderfulboy; know'd everything, then)--that he was way ahind the age. Then he wentoff a roamin', a seekin' his fortin'--and when he com'd back, nobody wouldknow'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 anynotice of the old man--said how the old man didn't know nothin'--(warn't hegenus, Squire Longbow?)--he wouldn't work any, because he said genusesnever work'd--that they wouldn't be genuses if they did--he made the oldman give him a fast horse, and a p'inter dog, and a gun, all kivered withsilver plates, and then he rid, and hunted, and courted--(warn't hegenus?)--he courted Squire Boson's darter, and Mr. Fogg's two darters, andall the gals in the western settlement, till he finally settled down, as Iwas tellin' Mr. ---- a while ago, into jest as much of a genus as ever--thedear 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 upthe clique of Bird & Co., and one would have thought there never had been asocial war in Puddleford. There never lived a mortal, I believe, who couldhold out against the humor of Ike Turtle. He magnetized all who came withinhis influence. He was shrewd, keen, far-seeing, full of good sense, and hada stock of fun that was positively inexhaustible. Ike, in reality, nevercared about the antipathy of Bird, Beagle & Co.--all their malice andslander had never "ruffled a feather," as he used to say. He was amusing_himself_ in the experiments he had been making to bring the factionstogether; but he did not in fact care whether they ever came together ornot.
About nine o'clock in the evening, and after "supper," as Mrs. Sonoracalled it, had passed off, Ike inquired of me if my fiddle was in thehouse, 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 intothe country among my lumber, and was somewhat out of order. Ike tinkered itup with his jack-knife, until it finally emitted a few strains of somethinglike music. He then played "Over the Hills," "Fisher's Hornpipe," andseveral other lively airs, until old Squire Longbow unconsciously began torap 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 hisfiddle--and declared that "nothing on airth would do him so much good as acountry dance, and she must consent to walk straight out without wincing."Mrs. Bird looked pleased and provoked, by turns, but she finally took Ike'sarm, and was duly placed on the floor. Squire Longbow and Mrs. Sonora werenext hauled out by Ike; Mrs. Swipes and Sile Bates, and so on, until he hadunited (with the exception of Squire Longbow and partner) the mostdiscordant elements of Puddleford.
The dance opened, Ike himself fiddling, shuffling, and calling off. He andMrs. Bird went down in the middle, up outside, and crossed over, Ike's feetplaying all the while like drum-sticks to the music of "Fisher's Hornpipe,"which he was sawing off with inconceivable rapidity, while Mrs. Birdfollowed after him, panting and blowing, without much regard to time ortune.
Squire Longbow and Mrs. Sonora trotted through their parts--Mrs. Sonorahaving declared, before she took the floor, "that she never was one of themare dancing critters, but she'd try and hobble through the figger the bestshe could."
By and by the general "wind-up" came, when "all hands" went into it heartand soul. Ike's fiddle, and Ike's voice, and the pattering of feet, wereall that was heard. "Right and left!" "Cross over!" "Don't run agin Mrs.Bird, Squire Longbow!" "A leetle faster, Mrs. Swipes!" "_Pardners_ keepclus arter one another!" "Don't cave!" "Not quite so much cavortin' downthar!" exclaimed Ike, giving expression to his words with his bow, when atlast he drew the whole to a close by a long, high squeak, and the companyrushed to their seats puffing, and covered with perspiration.
This movement of Ike's was a masterly performance. He had actually dancedwith Mrs. Bird, one of his bitterest enemies. He had melted the two hostilecliques of Puddleford into one. His flattery and music had accomplishedthis, and it was productive of lasting good, for the war from this timebegan to decline in Puddleford, and the hostile cliques were finallydissolved.
Perhaps the reader is disposed to smile at my description of a Puddlefordtea-party. Perhaps he thinks the ingenuousness of Aunt Sonora, thefree-and-easy humor of Ike Turtle, the peevish jealousy of Mrs. Bird, arethe 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 thisdifference, too, that _she_ can smile upon her bitterest enemy, when andwhere the rules of fashionable life demand it. You've got a Squire Longbowor two with you in all probability--not dressed in homespun, but"broadcloth"--one who has been favored by fortune, and no god beside--onewho 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--welook at your society through the telescope of education and refinement--atPuddleford, with the naked eye.