Moods
keeping the revel at its height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were
plenty, and the ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a
flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was producing with
knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival flock of little lasses
breathless with interest in the tales he told. One on each knee, two at
each side, four in a row on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all
with an arm about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for Uncle
Abel's clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a passport to their
confidence at once. Sylvia joined this group and partook of a quiet
entertainment with as childlike a relish as any of them, while the merry
tumult went on about her.
The toot of the horn sent the whole barnful streaming into the house
like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by some process known only to
the mothers of large families, every one was wedged close about the
table, and the feast began. This was none of your stand-up, wafery,
bread and butter teas, but a thorough-going, sit-down supper, and all
settled themselves with a smiling satisfaction, prophetic of great
powers and an equal willingness to employ them. A detachment of
half-grown girls was drawn up behind grandma, as waiters; Sylvia
insisted on being one of them, and proved herself a neat-handed Phillis,
though for a time slightly bewildered by the gastronomic performances
she beheld. Babies ate pickles, small boys sequestered pie with a
velocity that made her wink, women swam in the tea, and the men,
metaphorically speaking, swept over the table like a swarm of locusts,
while the host and hostess beamed upon one another and their robust
descendants with an honest pride, which was beautiful to see.
"That Mr. Wackett ain't eat scursely nothin', he jest sets lookin' round
kinder 'mazed like. Do go and make him fall to on somethin', or I shan't
take a mite of comfort in my vittles," said grandma, as the girl came
with an empty cup.
"He is enjoying it with all his heart and eyes, ma'am, for we don't see
such fine spectacles every day. I'll take him something that he likes
and make him eat it."
"Sakes alive! be you to be Mis' Wackett? I'd no idee of it, you look so
young."
"Nor I; we are only friends, ma'am."
"Oh!" and the monosyllable was immensely expressive, as the old lady
confided a knowing nod to the teapot, into whose depths she was just
then peering. Sylvia walked away wondering why persons were always
thinking and saying such things.
As she paused behind Warwick's chair with a glass of cream and a round
of brown bread, he looked up at her with his blandest expression, though
a touch of something like regret was in his voice.
"This is a sight worth living eighty hard years to see, and I envy that
old couple as I never envied any one before. To rear ten virtuous
children, put ten useful men and women into the world, and give them
health and courage to work out their own salvation as these honest souls
will do, is a better job done for the Lord, than winning a battle, or
ruling a State. Here is all honor to them. Drink it with me."
He put the glass to her lips, drank what she left, and rising, placed
her in his seat with the decisive air which few resisted.
"You take no thought for yourself and are doing too much; sit here a
little, and let me take a few steps where you have taken many."
He served her, and standing at her back, bent now and then to speak,
still with that softened look upon the face so seldom stirred by the
gentler emotions that lay far down in that deep heart of his; for never
had he felt so solitary.
All things must have an end, even a family feast, and by the time the
last boy's buttons peremptorily announced, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no
farther,' all professed themselves satisfied, and a general uprising
took place. The surplus population were herded in parlor and chambers,
while a few energetic hands cleared away, and with much clattering of
dishes and wafting of towels, left grandma's spandy clean premises as
immaculate as ever. It was dark when all was done, so the kitchen was
cleared, the candles lighted, Patience's door set open, and little Nat
established in an impromptu orchestra, composed of a table and a chair,
whence the first squeak of his fiddle proclaimed that the ball had
begun.
Everybody danced; the babies stacked on Patience's bed, or penned behind
chairs, sprawled and pranced in unsteady mimicry of their elders.
Ungainly farmers, stiff with labor, recalled their early days and
tramped briskly as they swung their wives about with a kindly pressure
of the hard hands that had worked so long together. Little pairs toddled
gravely through the figures, or frisked promiscuously in a grand
conglomeration of arms and legs. Gallant cousins kissed pretty cousins
at exciting periods, and were not rebuked. Mark wrought several of these
incipient lovers to a pitch of despair, by his devotion to the comeliest
damsels, and the skill with which he executed unheard-of evolutions
before their admiring eyes; Moor led out the poorest and the plainest
with a respect that caused their homely faces to shine, and their scant
skirts to be forgotten. Warwick skimmed his five years partner through
the air in a way that rendered her speechless with delight; and Sylvia
danced as she never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys, sleepy
with repletion, but bound to last it out; with rough-faced men who paid
her paternal compliments; with smart youths who turned sheepish with
that white lady's hand in their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad
who confided to her his burning desire to work a sawmill, and marry a
girl with black eyes and yellow hair. While, perched aloft, Nat bowed
away till his pale face glowed, till all hearts warmed, all feet beat
responsive to the good old tunes which have put so much health into
human bodies, and so much happiness into human souls.
At the stroke of nine the last dance came. All down the long kitchen
stretched two breathless rows; grandpa and grandma at the top, the
youngest pair of grandchildren at the bottom, and all between fathers,
mothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, while such of the babies as were
still extant, bobbed with unabated vigor, as Nat struck up the Virginia
Reel, and the sturdy old couple led off as gallantly as the young one
who came tearing up to meet them. Away they went, grandpa's white hair
flying in the wind, grandma's impressive cap awry with excitement, as
they ambled down the middle, and finished with a kiss when their tuneful
journey was done, amid immense applause from those who regarded this as
the crowning event of the day.
When all had had their turn, and twirled till they were dizzy, a short
lull took place, with refreshments for such as still possessed the power
of enjoying them. Then Phebe appeared with an armful of books, and all
settled themselves for the family "sing."
Sylvia had heard much fine music, but never any that touched her like
this, for, though often discordant, it was hearty, with that
under-current of feeling which adds sweetness to the rudest lay, and is
often more attractive than the most florid ornament or faultless
execution. Every one sang as every one had danced, with all their might;
shrill children, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff boys,
and strong-lunged men; the old pair quavered, and still a few
indefatigable babies crowed behind their little coops. Songs, ballads,
comic airs, popular melodies, and hymns, came in rapid succession. And
when they ended with that song which should be classed with sacred
music for association's sake, and standing hand in hand about the room
with the golden bride and bridegroom in their midst, sang "Home," Sylvia
leaned against her brother with dim eyes and a heart too full to sing.
Still standing thus when the last note had soared up and died, the old
man folded his hands and began to pray. It was an old-fashioned prayer,
such as the girl had never heard from the Bishop's lips; ungrammatical,
inelegant, and long. A quiet talk with God, manly in its straightforward
confession of short-comings, childlike in its appeal for guidance,
fervent in its gratitude for all good gifts, and the crowning one of
loving children. As if close intercourse had made the two familiar, this
human father turned to the Divine, as these sons and daughters turned to
him, as free to ask, as confident of a reply, as all afflictions,
blessings, cares, and crosses, were laid down before him, and the work
of eighty years submitted to his hand. There were no sounds in the room
but the one voice often tremulous with emotion and with age, the coo of
some dreaming baby, or the low sob of some mother whose arms were empty,
as the old man stood there, rugged and white atop as the granite hills,
with the old wife at his side, a circle of sons and daughters girdling
them round, and in all hearts the thought that as the former wedding had
been made for time, this golden one at eighty must be for eternity.
While Sylvia looked and listened a sense of genuine devotion stole over
her; the beauty and the worth of prayer grew clear to her through the
earnest speech of that unlettered man, and for the first time she fully
felt the nearness and the dearness of the Universal Father, whom she had
been taught to fear, yet longed to love.
"Now, my children, you must go before the little folks are tuckered
out," said Grandpa, heartily. "Mother and me can't say enough toe thank
you for the presents you have fetched us, the dutiful wishes you have
give us, the pride and comfort you have allers ben toe us. I ain't no
hand at speeches, so I shan't make none, but jest say ef any 'fliction
falls on any on you, remember mother's here toe help you bear it; ef any
worldly loss comes toe you, remember father's house is yourn while it
stans, and so the Lord bless and keep us all."
"Three cheers for gramper and grammer!" roared a six-foot scion as a
safety valve for sundry unmasculine emotions, and three rousing hurras
made the rafters ring, struck terror to the heart of the oldest
inhabitant of the rat-haunted garret, and summarily woke all the babies.
Then the good-byes began, the flurry of wrong baskets, pails and bundles
in wrong places; the sorting out of small folk too sleepy to know or
care what became of them; the maternal cluckings, and paternal shouts
for Kitty, Cy, Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; the piling into vehicles with
much ramping of indignant horses unused to such late hours; the last
farewells, the roll of wheels, as one by one the happy loads departed,
and peace fell upon the household for another year.
"I declare for't, I never had sech an out an out good time sense I was
born intoe the world. Ab'ram, you are fit to drop, and so be I; now
let's set and talk it over along of Patience fore we go toe bed."
The old couple got into their chairs, and as they sat there side by
side, remembering that she had given no gift, Sylvia crept behind them,
and lending the magic of her voice to the simple air, sang the fittest
song for time and place--"John Anderson my Jo." It was too much for
grandma, the old heart overflowed, and reckless of the cherished cap
she laid her head on her "John's" shoulder, exclaiming through her
tears--
"That's the cap sheaf of the hull, and I can't bear no more to-night.
Ab'ram, lend me your hankchif, for I dunno where mine is, and my face is
all of a drip."
Before the red bandana had gently performed its work in grandpa's hand,
Sylvia beckoned her party from the room, and showing them the clear
moonlight night which followed the storm, suggested that they should
both save appearances and enjoy a novel pleasure by floating homeward
instead of sleeping. The tide against which they had pulled in coming up