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. – Entrée 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 enside 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-comonly 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 Cæsars 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.