Tilly then read with much dramatic expression the following poetical effusion:

"How does the wicked b.u.mblebee Employ the shining hours, In stinging folks that he dislikes, Instead of sipping flowers."

Another loud laugh greeted this; largely due to the comical expression on Tilly James's face, which so far upset Quincy's habitual gravity that he was obliged to smile in spite of himself.

If Strout felt the shot he did not betray it, but turned to Huldy, who stood at his right, and said, "Now, Miss Mason, let me read your poetry for you, as they do it in the city."

Huldy hesitated, holding the slip of paper between her fingers, "Oh!

that ain't fair," said Strout. "I've set you a good example, now you mustn't squeal. Come, walk right up to the trough."

"I'm no pig," protested Huldy.

As Strout leaned over to take the paper he said in an undertone, "No, you are a little dear;" whereat Huldy's face flushed a bright crimson.

Strout cleared his voice and then read:

"Come wreathe your face with smiles, my dear, A husband you'll find within the year."

This was greeted with laughter, clapping of hands, and cries of "Who is it, Huldy?"

The Professor looked at Huldy inquiringly, but she averted her eyes. He leaned over and said in an undertone, "May I keep this?"

Huldy looked up and said in a tone that was heard by every one at the table, "I don't care; if you like it better than that one about the b.u.mblebee you can have it."

The Professor then turned to Quincy and said, "Perhaps Mr. Sawyer will oblige the company by pa.s.sing his poetry along, as they do it in the city."

Quincy answered quickly, "Why, certainly," and handed the slip to his left-hand neighbor, who chanced to be Miss Seraphina Cotton, who was the teacher in the public school located at Mason's Corner.

She prided herself on her elocutionary ability, and read the following with great expression:

"Though wealth and fame fall to my lot, I'd much prefer a little cot, In which, apart from care and strife, I'd love my children and my wife."

Strout laughed outright.

"By the way, Mr. Sawyer," said he, "have you seen any little cot round here that you'd swap your Beacon Street house for?"

"I've got my eye on some real estate in this town," said Quincy, "and if you own it perhaps we can make a trade."

'Zekiel Pettengill pa.s.sed his slip to Lindy Putnam; it ran thus:

"'An honest man's the n.o.blest work of G.o.d,'

No n.o.bler lives than he who tills the sod."

This was greeted with shouts and cries of "Good for 'Zeke!" while one of Cobb's twins, who possessed a thin, high voice, cried out, "He's all wool and a yard wide."

This provoked more shouts and hand-clapping, and 'Zekiel blushed like a peony.

Lindy Putnam handed her slip to Quincy; he took in its meaning at a glance and looked at her inquiringly.

Strout saw the glance and cried out, "Oh, come, now; don't leave out nothin'; read it jist as it's writ."

Lindy nodded to Quincy and he read:

"There is no heart but hath some wish unfilled, There is no soul without some longing killed, With heart and soul work for thy heart's desire.

And turn not back for storm, nor flood, nor fire."

"This is gittin' quite tragic," said Strout. "I guess we've had all we want to eat and drink, and have listened to all the bad poetry we want ter, and I move--"

"Second the motion," cried Abner Stiles.

"And I move," continued Strout, "that we git back inter the kitchen, and have a little dance jist to shake our suppers down."

After the company returned to the kitchen, Abner was again lifted to his elevated position on the kitchen table, and the fun began again. There was no doubt that in telling stories Abner Stiles often drew the long bow, but it was equally true that he had no superior in Eastborough and vicinity on the violin, or the fiddle, as he preferred to call it. He was now in his glory. His fiddle was tucked under his chin, a red silk handkerchief with large yellow polka dots protecting the violin from injury from his stubbly beard rather than his chin from being injured by the instrument.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE DEACON AND HIS WIFE LED OFF."]

After a few preliminary chords, Abner struck up the peculiar dance movement very popular in those days, called "The Cure." As if prearranged, Hiram Maxwell and Mandy Skinner ran to the centre of the room and began singing the words belonging to the dance. Abner gradually increased the speed of the melody, and the singers conformed, thereto.

Faster and faster the music went, and higher and higher the dancers jumped until the ceiling prevented any further progress upward. They leaned forward and backward, they leaned from side to side, but still kept up their monotonous leaps into the air. Finally, when almost exhausted, they sank into chairs hastily brought for them, amid the applause of the party.

Quincy had seen the dance at the city theatres, but acknowledged to himself that the country version was far ahead of the city one. At the same time it seemed to him that the dance savored of barbarism, and he recalled pictures and stories of Indian dances where the partic.i.p.ants fell to the ground too weak to rise.

"I put my right hand in," called out one of the fellows. Cries of "Oh, yes, that's it!" came from the company, and they arranged themselves in two rows, facing each other and running the length of the long room.

They were in couples, as they came to the party. Abner played the melody on his violin, and the fellows and girls sang these words:

"I put my right hand in, I put my right hand out, I give my right hand a shake, shake, shake, And I turn myself about."

As they sang the last line they did turn themselves about so many times that it seemed a wonder to Quincy, who was an amused spectator, how they kept upon their feet.

Seeing that one of the young ladies in the line was without a partner, Quincy took his place beside her and joined in the merriment as heartily as the rest. Then followed all the changes of "I put my left hand in,"

"I put my right foot in," "I put my left foot in," and so on until the whole party was nearly as much exhausted as Hiram and Mandy had been.

At this moment the door leading to the parlor opened and Deacon Mason entered, accompanied by his wife. They were greeted with shouts of laughter. Quincy looked at them with astonishment, and had it not been for their familiar faces, which they had not tried to disguise, he would not have recognized them.

Out of compliment to their guests, the Deacon and his wife had gone back to the days of their youth. Probably from some old chest in the garret each had resurrected a costume of fifty years before. They advanced into the room, smiling and bowing to the delighted spectators on either side.

They went directly to Abner, and the latter bent over to hear what the Deacon whispered in his ear. The Deacon then went to Strout and whispered something to him.

Strout nodded, and turning to the company said, "As it's now half past 'leven and most time for honest folks to be abed and rogues a runnin', out of compliment to Miss Huldy's grandpa and grandma, who have honored us with their presence this evenin', we will close these festivities with a good old-fashioned heel and toe Virginia reel. Let 'er go, Abner, and keep her up till all the fiddle strings are busted."

Like trained soldiers, they sprang to their places. Quincy and his partner took places near the end of the line. He explained to her that he had never danced a reel, but thought he could easily learn from seeing the others, and he told her that when their turn came she need not fear but that he would do his part.

The Deacon and his wife led off, and their performance caused great enthusiasm. Sam Hill was not a good dancer, so he resigned Miss Tilly James to Professor Strout. Miss James was a superb dancer, and as Quincy looked at her his face showed his appreciation.

His partner saw the glance, and looking up to him said, "Don't you wish you could dance as well as that?"

"I wish I could," said Quincy. "I have no doubt you can," he added, looking at his partner's rosy face.

"Well," said she, "you do the best you can, and I'll do the same."