The Dance of Dinwiddie
A HOUSE and a barn on an acre of ground—
And there wasn’t another of either around
Save the houses afloat that went flying apast,
For the waters had closed all around them at last.
There the dancers had come on the ev’ning before
In their high-seated wagon—a full score or more,
With fiddlers and one they called “Oracle,” who
Was a modern Sebastian Cerezo, and knew
(About dancing and things) more than any one ’round
In the house or the barn on the acre of ground.
’Twas at the great bend near the town of Dinwiddie
On the banks of the river Ohio, and giddy,
The gay, dizzy dance, like a far-away echo,
Seems laughing to me of a time long ago,
In the merry round waltz and the songs for the reels,
In the “Oracle’s” rhymes that were slicker than eels,
And the snug little town whence the dancers had come
On the evening before to the old country home,
Is as fresh to my mind as the tall trees around
The frame house and the barn on the acre of ground.
There the tall trees are standing, still standing alone
Like sentinels now, and are now taller grown,
Where once was the homestead. How often I’m told
By the boatmen who traveled the river of old,
That they never can pass round the great sweeping bend
But the dance is recalled, and they think of the end
That so suddenly came to the cherished old place;
They note the tall trees as its last lingering trace—
Their long branches waving as if in a trance
From a waltz they had caught on the night of the dance.
There often the town folks, still curious, stray
To look o’er the place on a summery day,
Recounting the story when nearing the sight,
And some one will tell of the dance of that night,
Of the dancers who came there that evening before—
Not thinking the river could rise any more—
Will sing the reel songs and will point to the place
Where once stood the house on that now crumbling base
When caught in the flood on that night without warning
To the dancers within till the dawn of the morning.
’Twas a house of firm structure, but fashioned quite plain,
With its hallway, its rooms and a roof ’gainst the rain,
With a story below and a story above,
And the rooms were all ample and wide; but the love
For the house was of measure far more than its worth.
’Twas the mem’ries that ever recurred for its hearth
That made it so precious. I love to recall
The long row of windows, the doorway and hall,
And fondly thought lingers—in fancy I see
The trees that seem nodding and laughing to me.
The farm swept the valley to right and to left
For a mile to the hill where the quarry was cleft.
From the house to the hill it was level and low,
And oft in the spring-time the flood-tide would grow
Till the back-waters covered the fields at their will,
But they lay there as peaceful and placid and still
As the mountain lakes seem, then, as if in a dream,
They would gently recede as they followed the stream;
And the house and the barn that were built on a mound
Overlooked the great river and all of the ground.
’Twas Twilleger’s farm. It was Twilleger’s way
To give a big dance and be joyous and gay
In the early spring season. It did his soul good
To gather around him the whole neighborhood;
For Twilley (they called him) had ways of his own,
And except a few servants, he lived quite alone.
In the early spring season, when cider grows harder,
He would stock up his cellar and also his larder,
And then would invite the gay dancers to come
From out of the town to the old country home.
For a week, ere the night of the dance, a high tide
Of water had covered the farm to the side
Of a road running out from the house to the hill.
’Twas receding, they said—it was even and still.
Yet the sky had been sullen and surcharged with rain,
And there was an unrest at the threatening gain
Of the waters that leaped o’er the banks at the shore
To a point that was higher than known of before,
For the early spring thaw of the deep-lying snow
In the mountains augmented the high overflow.
They were coming, were coming.
But the clear sky it left when the sun had declined
On the eve of the dance reassured every mind.
How balmy and sweet was the evening! How fair
Was the face of all nature that smiled everywhere!
Far out on the highway their voices rang clear
As the dancers were coming with song and a cheer
In their wagon that rumbled along with its load.
They were coming, were coming far down on the road,
And to meet them, away ran the great baying hound
To lead them down home to the acre of ground.
There the dancers were welcomed by Twilley soon after,
Where they filled all the rooms with a chatter and laughter.
Their sparkling bright eyes showed their fine healthy thriving,
And joyous and mirthful, their wits were soon striving,
And many sly banters and rail’ries were given
To lovers, that were in turn back again driven,
For some of them loved to be told of their love,
Whilst others were shy and as mild as a dove,
And just as soft-cooing—to some there’s a pleasure
In hiding their love as the birds hide their treasure.
Now most of the women who came from the town
Were sweetly suburban in manner and gown,
Though none the less merry or jauntily gay,
Whilst some were profuse in a brilliant display.
Selina! Selina was there! Were there ever
Such eyes as Selina’s? No wonder the river
Crept higher and higher to bask in the light
Of her dark, rolling eyes. No wonder that night
That the stars faded fast and from envy withdrew,
For her eyes were far brighter—they every one knew.
Ah, the runaway laugh of Louisa still rings
Like a merry and lingering echo. It brings
Recollections of pink-glowing cheeks, and a girl
Whose fun-loving spell set the house in a whirl,
As her laughter ran riot and touched everywhere,
Till Amanda, the chaperon, with dignified air
And a fine, arching brow, was compelled to unbend
And to follow the frivolous, frolicsome trend
Of a something she knew not—she wasn’t half sure
If she laughed with Louisa or just at her laughter.
But ’tis needless to point all their feminine graces,
Or with blund’ring endeavor to profile their faces,
For every one knows where the prodigal nature
Once lavished the rarest of all of her treasure;
Where she hung the steep hill in a moment of leisure,
And dreamed the sweet valleys with lingering pleasure;
She smiled, and the streamlets will run there forever
And yield their full measure to form the great river;
But how void were the hills and the valleys and waters,
Till she brought there the fairest of all of her daughters.
All the beauties were there from the strath-haven town,
And some were so queenly they lacked but the crown;
And the men, while of no very special great talent,
There was yet a lieutenant with airs that were gallant.
There was also a wit who was quite proud of it,
Who teased an old bachelor—not sociable a bit,
For love so absorbed him he smiled and was mute,
While Malinda just laughed and encouraged his suit,
Till the heart of the bachelor grew light as a feather,
And he and Malinda drew closer together.
And even the cynical Simon was won
As the chatter of dancers went merrily on,
Till once he laughed loudly and ever so jolly—
’Twas all on account of the popular Polly.
Tim Dolor, the bashful, was quite at his ease,
And every one there seemed as easy to please,
And every face beamed with a broadening smile
That broke into ripples of laughter the while,
As the men chose their partners some time in advance
Of the fiddles that had to be tuned for the dance.
Ah, the little sly glances that gave the love-token,
The soft-whispered words by the fond lovers spoken.
Whilst some were coquetting by way of diversion,
There were others inclined to an earnest assertion,
As around through the rooms and the halls they would ramble;
The Bold Roland Rare in a light-footed amble,
With an air of a fine condescending compassion,
Gave the latest new step that had come into fashion;
And some fell to giving and guessing new riddles
While the fumbling old fiddlers were fixing their fiddles.
Twice, thrice, had the band leader sprung to his feet
To call for attention, while deftly he beat
On the back of his fiddle, then drew a swift bow
’Crost its sensitive strings that the players might know
’Twas time to begin, but a fiddle-string snapped
And put things awry every time that he rapped;
Then tuning and strumming would vie with the horn
That was screeching a monotone strange and forlorn,
While Cupid accepted the timely delay
To lead the fond lovers aside and away.
And meanwhile the “Oracle” wrote some new rhymes
For the dances. Said he, “I write better at times.
My old rhymes were good, to be sure, some were fine,
Very fine—you could hardly find fault with a line.
On occasions like this, I write new ones,” said he,
“For everything here is inspiring to me.
I can write of the things that I see on the spot,
And the dancers will notice that when I take thought,
I just leap upon Pegasus, speed him along,
Till my fancies go rhyming and turn to a song.
“I’m a very great poet, as every one knows.
See how dreamy I look, and how long my hair grows.
I talk in a rhythm that’s classical, too.
’Twere a marvel to tell all the things I can do.
I can dance every jig of the day or tradition,
But while dancing alone is my greatest ambition,
I often indulge in the light recreation
Of keeping the river at just its right station,
So that floods at Dinwiddie occasion no worry—
I have them subside when they get o’er their flurry.”
’Twas a story oft told, though it hardly deceived,
That the “Oracle” could—which he doubtless believed—
Make the rising Ohio floods quickly subside
When he stretched forth his hand and commanded the tide.
’Twas a great feat of magic, and if he seemed vain,
His pride was forgiven again and again,
For as often as flood-waters threatened the town,
It was well understood why the tide had gone down;
And for his dance-calling and mystical lore,
His neighbors yclept him the title he bore.
All were merry that night. They proceeded to tear
Up the carpets and rugs so the floor would be bare
For quadrilles and the reels that they all loved so well;
And the lovers who danced—but there’s no use to dwell
Upon that, for all lovers are happy who dance
To the music and whirl with a dizzy side glance.
So the “Oracle” called from a platform to stand on,
And they danced to his rhymes with a heedless abandon,
While the waters were leaving an Island becrowned
With a house and a barn on an acre of ground.
(The Oracle Calls.)
And bend the knee in courtesy
To sweethearts and your lovers true;
Next two, with lilting gayety,
The center glide away; now you
May nimbly trip back to your place,
And balance all—the even time
Will bring you once more face to face
To listen to my “old-time” reeling rhyme.
Come hither, pretty maid and swain,
It is your turn; tiptoe with grace
Adown the center lover’s lane;
With easy turn once more to place,
And now obeisance make to all,
And sweethearts courtesy; with rhyme
And melody, Oh, hear my call
To dance around your “Oracle” this time.
Go flutter like the turtle bird,
Don’t try to fly—’twould be absurd.
To me there’s music in the chime
Of twinkling feet with even time.
Lieutenant Love, lead home thy dove,
(The flood is falling up above),
And have her bring an olive sprall
To prove the flood was but a waterfall.
(O, cynic Simon, have a care;
Twice have you jostled Roland Rare
With elbows angled in the air;
It seems that Polly’s witching face
Has so beguiled you with its grace
That you have lost your time and place.)
Fly low, my turtle doves, fly low;
To right and left and form the double row.
And bend the knee in courtesy,
(There was a sometime prophesy)
Your turn sweet bach, Malindy, too.
(And some have thought it would come true,
That floods would some day higher swell
To sweep the valley where we dwell).
Sweet bachelor, prance down the lane,
And with you bring Malindy home again.
And balance all—the even time
Will fill the measure to my rhyme.
(But when the floods shall see my wand,
Obedient to my one command,
They’ll very soon recede, you’ll find
As heretofore they have declined)
Once more, my cooing doves, once more
Go tell your love-lorn tales as round you soar.
They danced till the “Oracle” said they were through;
If he ran out of rhymes not a soul of them knew;
No one doubted at all he could go on forever,
And ev’ry one thought he was wondrously clever;
Then some one called out for the “Old Gallantry;”
“Oh! ‘The Sweet Harry Lee,’ let us dance ‘Harry Lee,’”
Then, they ev’ry one cried, for it fit their feet neatly
To dance, while it suited their voices completely;
They sang and they danced and there was a resound
That was everywhere heard on the acre of ground.
(The Sweet Harry Lee.)
Oh, have you seen Sweet Harry Lee
With airs so light and breezy,
And such a gentle courtesy
That seems so soft and easy?
He is so tall and straight and trim
With military talent,
And all the girls run after him,
Because he is so gallant.
For Harry is a soldier bold,
And he’s a great defender,
But when to me his love he told,
His eyes were O, so tender.
And Harry is so daring, too,
I’ve heard it very often,
But when he tells his love so true,
His voice will seem to soften.
There’s none can love like Harry Lee,
And none can be so merry,
And then his pleasing gallantry,
So witching and so airy.
Oh, have you seen sweet Harry Lee,
Who calls me “Little Fairy?”
In camp and field, he says, ’tis me
He’s coming home to marry.
Then the waltz! Ah the waltz! What ravishing pleasure
They felt in the waltz as they reveled its measure,
And how their blood surged with ecstatic sensation
As their dancing feet caught its enchanting creation
Till it bore them, as if, on a smooth gliding stream,
Enraptured away in a beautiful dream;
And the doting old bach’lor rode high on the tide
As he held up Malindy real close to his side—
To furnish the witling whose tongue couldn’t rest,
A subject to turn to an infinite jest.
The witling was jealous, ’twas laughingly said,
And it may have been true, for the fine posing head
Of Malinda was wise and more subtlely schemed
Than the wittiest lover has ever yet dreamed;
She could even walk lame to seem easily caught,
And many a lover who ardently sought
To o’ertake her gave up at the last in despair
When he found that her halting was only a snare,
And a month she’d been leading the witling a chase
When she tagged the old bachelor to run in the race.
So what could he do but to fall in the lair
Of her sudden side glance or her innocent stare?
Then away ran the bachelor along with the wit,
And he nearly caught up when she halted a bit,
And it was no great wonder the witling was peeved—
He was being outrun, as he plainly perceived.
’Twas but nat’ral for him to give vent to his spleen,
And no one could say, but it really seemed mean
For Malindy to dance and be acting as though
She was tickled to death with a homelier beau.
But the kindly Neoma was there and alert;
She saw the great wit with his proud feelings hurt,
And smiling, she beckoned him over her way,
Where she flattered his pride as a clever girl may,
Till he told all he knew and a score of things more,
Which Neoma, still smiling, as patiently bore;
She sympathized with him. There often is found
A sweet-tempered girl who will care for the wound
Of a lover who loses, and teach him a sanity new,
And sometimes restore his old vanity, too.
Now Malindy had genius; she too had a smile
For all the sweet bachelor said, and the while,
She hadn’t neglected to listen as well
To every old yarn that the witling could tell,
And at the right moment she turned a side glance,
Which must have meant something, for off in a prance
It started the witling again to the chase
More hopeful than ever of winning the race;
And Malindy led off with her favorite song
And with her the witling went smiling along.
MALINDY’S SONG
When I was young I often heard
There was no sign or token
By which to know a lover’s word
Would not be shortly broken.
I feared to trust love to entwine
Without a due reflection
Around this foolish heart of mine
To ravish its affection.
I thought ’twould rob my peace of mind
And force the tear to trickle
Upon a fading cheek to find
The love I loved was fickle.
And yet it seemed that if I knew
A lover not ungraceful
And I could feel that he was true,
I’d surely be as faithful.
And really, once there came a beau
Who wooed me very kindly,
But love is blind, I said, and oh!
I feared to love so blindly.
And yet it seemed that very day
I found my heart relenting,
But he was gone, Oh, gone away!
And I was left repenting.
So, often now there comes a day
I seem to be expecting
That love will come and come to stay,
For I have quit reflecting.
“There’s no use reflecting”—a sort of refrain
That went ’round the room and repeated again
When the dancing was over. “I’m always reflecting,”
Said Roland, quite proudly. “I think you’re expecting
That some one will love you,” laughed shy Letha Lane,
“How sad it would be if she loved you in vain!”
“I should think it were sadder,” the great witling said,
“If loving bold Roland, bold Roland she’d wed.”
With a little small wit—a supposed repartee,
Thus every one went on their own merry way.
They gathered in groups, as you’ve seen dancers do,
Discussing a well-worn gossip or two;
Louisa was telling a personal affair
Which Neoma was hearing with sisterly care.
’Twas a subject some slyly had whispered in jest;
Louisa denied it at first, then confessed
To a folly her heart would no longer conceal,
Which most girls, though dying, would scarcely reveal—
Confession’s a troublesome thing in our youth—
But see how Louisa could tell the whole truth.
LOUISA’S STORY
They tell I passed the store six times to-day
And just to get a glimpse of Alfred Gray.
The very idea of such a thing!
And them a going round a tattling
As though it all were true! It isn’t fair;
But let them talk, I’m sure I do not care.
Why, as I passed the store I looked away
And never even thought of Alfred Gray.
Now let me see. ’Tis about a month or so
Since Alfred called—’tis just a month ago.
I didn’t say a word to him that night
Of what I’d heard, but acted gay and light,
And wasn’t jealous, either—not a bit,
Not the least, little tiny speck of it.
I talked and laughed, but as he went away
I said, “You’ll get a letter, Alfred Gray.”
And that was all I said, except, of course, “Good-bye,”
But after he was gone—I don’t know why—
I angry grew and wrote that letter then.
I told him what I thought of all the men,
And ’bout him calling on my Cousin Kate;
Said I, “It isn’t jealousy, but hate,
That prompts me now to write to you this way,
So cease your calling on me, Alfred Gray.”
Next morn I sent the letter off to town,
And Cousin Kate, she heard how I’d gone down
And how I’d begged the postal clerk in vain
For him to give the letter back again;
Of course, it was a silly thing in me,
But then it really looked like jealousy,
And worried me to think of it that way—
Not that I cared at all for Alfred Gray.
And when my Cousin Kate came round to call,
She sat up straight, and prim, and proud, and tall,
But I could see a twinkle in her eye,
As after while she bluntly asked me why
I worried ’bout that letter I had sent.
’Twas then that all the anger in me pent
Burst forth; I said in my severest way,
“’Tis you who came ’twixt me and Alfred Gray.”
Kate frowned at first, and then she laughed outright,
And said that maybe she could throw some light
Upon the mystery that troubled so.
A friend of hers she said, not long ago,
Who looked like Alfred, came to call on her—
He looked like Alfred, only handsomer,
She laughed—and people talked—it is their way—
They took the handsome man for Alfred Gray.
Then Kate pretended dignity
And wounded feelings, too, and teasing me,
She said, it hurt her—what I said—and sighed,
Till both began to laugh—and then I cried,
For though I knew Kate told the truth to me,
It added still to my perplexity
If I should then attempt to tell the way
It all had come about to Alfred Gray.
I felt so ’shamed in writing Alfred, then
And he’s so stubborn, too, like most the men,
He hasn’t written me a line as yet.
I maybe do sometimes a little fret,
And maybe, though it does seem very bold,
(You must not tell, or else I’ll know who told)
I may have passed the store six times to-day
To get a little glimpse of Alfred Gray.
It had all been arranged and ’twas timed to the hour
For Amanda to dance with the old bachelor,
The chap’ron, ’twas said, had a song of her own;
She expected, of course, to have sung it alone,
And though she led off in a rather high key,
The dancers all joined her with boisterous glee,
For they slyly had conned it the evening before;
And they made it the jolliest dance on the floor,
And though she protested, it all was in vain,
They began it all over and sang it again.
THE CHAPERON’S SONG
’Tis not because I couldn’t have,
For laws! I’ve had my chances;
Nor can I say I wouldn’t have,
If some had made advances.
But that’s the way it’s always been
In my experiences;
I never caught among the men
The proper person’s glances.
And goodness knows, I’ve often said,
Nor would I now deny it,
’Tis better far for one to wed
Or do her best to try it;
But if she fails to find her mate,
Or finding, fails to bind him,
It may turn out a better fate
To never have to mind him.
For now I’m of a certain age,
Or “old,” as you may view it;
And single still, up to this stage
I’ve never seemed to rue it.
Still, ’twasn’t that I wouldn’t have
If some had made advances,
Nor can I say I couldn’t have,
For laws! I’ve had my chances.
It was fine, it was jolly, and no one could tell
How it all came about that the chaperon fell;
It seemed that her hoops, near the end of the dance,
Got caught on the knob of a door by a chance,
And the knob being firm and the hoops being strong
The hoops had to stay where they didn’t belong.
The chaperon tripped and she tumbled, of course,
But was up in a trice, looking not so much worse
While the dancers all laughed but she kept on a-singing
And never looked back where the hoops were still clinging.
It was a mistake and the chaperon knew
That she should not have sung—she apologized, too—
There’s no one can tell what the young people think
When their elders look sidewise on folly to wink—
’Tis a gap in the fences that leads to the clover,
And the dignified ruling of prudence is over.
They cut up—that’s nothing, they carried it on
Till Malindy, ashamed of the things that were done,
Took the bachelor out for a short, quiet walk
And lectured him soundly on orderly talk
And then he behaved—’tis a marvelous thing
What order from chaos a woman can bring;
But Malindy, of course, had a very wise head
And none ever knew of the thing that she said
When she took her short stroll with the bachelor. Well,
There were others to conquer, the wit had a spell,
But she mastered him quickly and put him to rout
By looking askance and pretending to pout.
’Twas a trick of Malindy’s—the girls of Dinwiddie
All knew it, they laughed and they laughed, oh, so giddy.
Tim Dolor, the bashful, could sing very well
When once he was rid of his timorous spell;
They coaxed him and pulled him, and though he was shy,
They would not release him until he would try;
But his voice had the ring of a poor, distressed call,
And the wail of his song was pathetic to all,
For the eyes of Selina had pierced the boy’s heart;
’Twas also her smile that had speeded the dart.
Poor Dolor was love-sick, as ev’ry one knew,
And his sad song was drowned in the tears that it drew.
TIM DOLOR’S SONG
Oh! mother, mother, my poor heart
Is all but now a-breaking;
I’ve seen a girl with such an art
Of ways that were so taking.
I thought her smiles were meant for me;
I foolishly grew bolder,
When from that hour ’twas plain to see
Her smiles were growing colder.
I loved her so, she was so fair;
With eyes that shone so brightly,
And such a dream of golden hair
That curled and clustered lightly.
She was so fair, I loved her so—
I may have been too daring—
I told her of my love, but oh!
She said she wasn’t caring.
Oh! make my bed and make it high,
So that I there may smother
Some of these heart-aches while I lie
Among the feathers, mother.
But mother, mother, do not cry
For this, your boy’s undoing,
If ’mong the feathers I should die
I’ll not regret my wooing.
’Twas midnight; the tables were spread to regale,
Then followed a story, a song and some ale;
The “Oracle” sang of a magical stream
That murmured a strangely mysterious theme;
The shy Letha Lane and the bold Roland Rare
Gave a song and a dance that was passingly fair,
And so plaintive and sad was the sweet bachelor
When he sang of the valley he came from afar,
That Malindy confessed, though she couldn’t tell why,
It affected her so that she almost could cry.
THE HAPPY HOLLOW DREAM
(By the “Oracle.”)
There’s an unfrequented valley
In the mountain of Somally,
Where the skies so lulling seem,
That they call the “Happy Hollow,”
And you’ll find it if you follow
Up an ever-winding stream.
There if ever you should wander,
Linger for awhile to ponder
By the subtle flowing stream,
Winding over rude or mallow,
Where it murmurs deep or shallow
Of a strange, alluring theme.
For it springs from hidden fountains
In the distant, misty mountains,
Where it weaves a silver ream.
Then it hastens to the valley,
There to whirl and sing and dally
In a dance of crystal gleam.
It may seem an idle fancy,
Or a scheme of Pegomancy
That was practiced long ago,
But you’ll find that unexpected,
All your being is affected
By the waters murmuring so.
Of the fountains that they sprang from,
Of the mountains that they sang from
At an altitude so high
That they even heard the whispers
In the mornings and the vespers
Of the saints that were so nigh.
And the waters bring the tidings,
And they tell of the abidings
Of departed souls you know,
For their voices seemed to follow
Down into the Happy Hollow
Where the winding waters flow.
Where a light that has the seeming
Of a pure benignly beaming—
Ever there the day and night—
Brings to you a tranquil feeling
Through its soft rays to you stealing
Of a calm, serene delight.
Then you’ll fall to sweetly dreaming
While the mellow light is gleaming
On the ever-winding stream;
And the world will turn to smiling,
Through the strange and soft beguiling
Of the Happy Hollow Dream.
You will hear a loved one singing,
On the waters that are bringing
To your dream-enraptured ear,
Oh! the very tones that ravished
Once your heart until it lavished
Ev’ry love to lovers dear!
And beyond the mind’s creation,
In a pleasing presentation,
Faces to you will appear
Of departed ones you well knew,
Who will smile as if to tell you
They are ever, ever near.
In the mountains of Somally
Where the stream winds through the valley,
And the skies so lulling seem,
There the world will turn to smiling
Through the strange and soft beguiling
Of the Happy Hollow Dream.
Where’s Letha? Where’s Letha? Now where did she go?
And what could possess her to run away so?
“’Tis like her, she’s shy, and she’s hiding somewhere,
While the bold Roland Rare is awaiting her here.”
Thus the chap’ron ran calling and searching for Letha
Till she found her at last in a hiding beneath a
Round table. “I wish I could stay here and die,”
Said Letha, “I hate to pretend that I cry.”
But she tripped to the floor with a little shy glance,
And began with bold Roland to sing and to dance.
THE LOVERS’ QUARREL
(By Roland Rare and Letha Lane.)