The Dance of Dinwiddie

A HOUSE and a barn on an acre of ground—And there wasn’t another of either aroundSave 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 beforeIn their high-seated wagon—a full score or more,With fiddlers and one they called “Oracle,” whoWas a modern Sebastian Cerezo, and knew(About dancing and things) more than any one ’roundIn the house or the barn on the acre of ground.’Twas at the great bend near the town of DinwiddieOn 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 comeOn the evening before to the old country home,Is as fresh to my mind as the tall trees aroundThe frame house and the barn on the acre of ground.There the tall trees are standing, still standing aloneLike sentinels now, and are now taller grown,Where once was the homestead. How often I’m toldBy the boatmen who traveled the river of old,That they never can pass round the great sweeping bendBut the dance is recalled, and they think of the endThat 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 tranceFrom a waltz they had caught on the night of the dance.There often the town folks, still curious, strayTo 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 placeWhere once stood the house on that now crumbling baseWhen caught in the flood on that night without warningTo 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 loveFor the house was of measure far more than its worth.’Twas the mem’ries that ever recurred for its hearthThat made it so precious. I love to recallThe long row of windows, the doorway and hall,And fondly thought lingers—in fancy I seeThe trees that seem nodding and laughing to me.The farm swept the valley to right and to leftFor 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 growTill the back-waters covered the fields at their will,But they lay there as peaceful and placid and stillAs 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 moundOverlooked the great river and all of the ground.’Twas Twilleger’s farm. It was Twilleger’s wayTo give a big dance and be joyous and gayIn the early spring season. It did his soul goodTo 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 comeFrom out of the town to the old country home.For a week, ere the night of the dance, a high tideOf water had covered the farm to the sideOf 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 gainOf the waters that leaped o’er the banks at the shoreTo a point that was higher than known of before,For the early spring thaw of the deep-lying snowIn the mountains augmented the high overflow.

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 DinwiddieOn 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 comeOn the evening before to the old country home,Is as fresh to my mind as the tall trees aroundThe frame house and 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 aloneLike sentinels now, and are now taller grown,Where once was the homestead. How often I’m toldBy the boatmen who traveled the river of old,That they never can pass round the great sweeping bendBut the dance is recalled, and they think of the endThat 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 tranceFrom a waltz they had caught on the night of the dance.

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, strayTo 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 placeWhere once stood the house on that now crumbling baseWhen caught in the flood on that night without warningTo the dancers within till the dawn of the morning.

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 loveFor the house was of measure far more than its worth.’Twas the mem’ries that ever recurred for its hearthThat made it so precious. I love to recallThe long row of windows, the doorway and hall,And fondly thought lingers—in fancy I seeThe trees that seem nodding and laughing to me.

’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 leftFor 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 growTill the back-waters covered the fields at their will,But they lay there as peaceful and placid and stillAs 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 moundOverlooked the great river and all of the ground.

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 wayTo give a big dance and be joyous and gayIn the early spring season. It did his soul goodTo 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 comeFrom out of the town to the old country home.

’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 tideOf water had covered the farm to the sideOf 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 gainOf the waters that leaped o’er the banks at the shoreTo a point that was higher than known of before,For the early spring thaw of the deep-lying snowIn the mountains augmented the high overflow.

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 declinedOn the eve of the dance reassured every mind.How balmy and sweet was the evening! How fairWas the face of all nature that smiled everywhere!Far out on the highway their voices rang clearAs the dancers were coming with song and a cheerIn 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 houndTo 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 givenTo 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 pleasureIn hiding their love as the birds hide their treasure.Now most of the women who came from the townWere 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 everSuch eyes as Selina’s? No wonder the riverCrept higher and higher to bask in the lightOf her dark, rolling eyes. No wonder that nightThat 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 ringsLike a merry and lingering echo. It bringsRecollections of pink-glowing cheeks, and a girlWhose fun-loving spell set the house in a whirl,As her laughter ran riot and touched everywhere,Till Amanda, the chaperon, with dignified airAnd a fine, arching brow, was compelled to unbendAnd to follow the frivolous, frolicsome trendOf a something she knew not—she wasn’t half sureIf 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 natureOnce 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 foreverAnd 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 wonAs 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 smileThat broke into ripples of laughter the while,As the men chose their partners some time in advanceOf 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 riddlesWhile the fumbling old fiddlers were fixing their fiddles.Twice, thrice, had the band leader sprung to his feetTo call for attention, while deftly he beatOn 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 snappedAnd put things awry every time that he rapped;Then tuning and strumming would vie with the hornThat was screeching a monotone strange and forlorn,While Cupid accepted the timely delayTo lead the fond lovers aside and away.And meanwhile the “Oracle” wrote some new rhymesFor 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 recreationOf 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 subsideWhen 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 tearUp the carpets and rugs so the floor would be bareFor quadrilles and the reels that they all loved so well;And the lovers who danced—but there’s no use to dwellUpon that, for all lovers are happy who danceTo 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 becrownedWith a house and a barn on an acre of ground.

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 givenTo 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 pleasureIn hiding their love as the birds hide their treasure.

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 townWere 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 everSuch eyes as Selina’s? No wonder the riverCrept higher and higher to bask in the lightOf her dark, rolling eyes. No wonder that nightThat the stars faded fast and from envy withdrew,For her eyes were far brighter—they every one knew.

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 ringsLike a merry and lingering echo. It bringsRecollections of pink-glowing cheeks, and a girlWhose fun-loving spell set the house in a whirl,As her laughter ran riot and touched everywhere,Till Amanda, the chaperon, with dignified airAnd a fine, arching brow, was compelled to unbendAnd to follow the frivolous, frolicsome trendOf a something she knew not—she wasn’t half sureIf she laughed with Louisa or just at her laughter.

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 natureOnce 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 foreverAnd 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.

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.

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 wonAs 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 smileThat broke into ripples of laughter the while,As the men chose their partners some time in advanceOf the fiddles that had to be tuned for the dance.

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 riddlesWhile the fumbling old fiddlers were fixing their fiddles.

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 feetTo call for attention, while deftly he beatOn 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 snappedAnd put things awry every time that he rapped;Then tuning and strumming would vie with the hornThat was screeching a monotone strange and forlorn,While Cupid accepted the timely delayTo lead the fond lovers aside and away.

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 rhymesFor 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.

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 recreationOf 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.”

“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 subsideWhen 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.

’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 tearUp the carpets and rugs so the floor would be bareFor quadrilles and the reels that they all loved so well;And the lovers who danced—but there’s no use to dwellUpon that, for all lovers are happy who danceTo 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 becrownedWith a house and a barn on an acre of ground.

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 courtesyTo sweethearts and your lovers true;Next two, with lilting gayety,The center glide away; now youMay nimbly trip back to your place,And balance all—the even timeWill bring you once more face to faceTo listen to my “old-time” reeling rhyme.Come hither, pretty maid and swain,It is your turn; tiptoe with graceAdown the center lover’s lane;With easy turn once more to place,And now obeisance make to all,And sweethearts courtesy; with rhymeAnd melody, Oh, hear my callTo 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 chimeOf twinkling feet with even time.Lieutenant Love, lead home thy dove,(The flood is falling up above),And have her bring an olive sprallTo prove the flood was but a waterfall.(O, cynic Simon, have a care;Twice have you jostled Roland RareWith elbows angled in the air;It seems that Polly’s witching faceHas so beguiled you with its graceThat 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 swellTo sweep the valley where we dwell).Sweet bachelor, prance down the lane,And with you bring Malindy home again.And balance all—the even timeWill 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 findAs heretofore they have declined)Once more, my cooing doves, once moreGo tell your love-lorn tales as round you soar.

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 graceAdown the center lover’s lane;With easy turn once more to place,And now obeisance make to all,And sweethearts courtesy; with rhymeAnd melody, Oh, hear my callTo dance around your “Oracle” this time.

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 chimeOf twinkling feet with even time.Lieutenant Love, lead home thy dove,(The flood is falling up above),And have her bring an olive sprallTo prove the flood was but a waterfall.

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 RareWith elbows angled in the air;It seems that Polly’s witching faceHas so beguiled you with its graceThat you have lost your time and place.)Fly low, my turtle doves, fly low;To right and left and form the double row.

(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 swellTo sweep the valley where we dwell).Sweet bachelor, prance down the lane,And with you bring Malindy home again.

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 timeWill 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 findAs heretofore they have declined)Once more, my cooing doves, once moreGo tell your love-lorn tales as round you soar.

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 neatlyTo dance, while it suited their voices completely;They sang and they danced and there was a resoundThat was everywhere heard on the acre of ground.

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 LeeWith airs so light and breezy,And such a gentle courtesyThat seems so soft and easy?He is so tall and straight and trimWith 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 meHe’s coming home to marry.

Oh, have you seen Sweet Harry LeeWith airs so light and breezy,And such a gentle courtesyThat seems so soft and easy?

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 trimWith military talent,And all the girls run after him,Because he is so gallant.

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.

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.

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.

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 meHe’s coming home to marry.

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 pleasureThey felt in the waltz as they reveled its measure,And how their blood surged with ecstatic sensationAs their dancing feet caught its enchanting creationTill 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 tideAs 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 headOf Malinda was wise and more subtlely schemedThan the wittiest lover has ever yet dreamed;She could even walk lame to seem easily caught,And many a lover who ardently soughtTo o’ertake her gave up at the last in despairWhen he found that her halting was only a snare,And a month she’d been leading the witling a chaseWhen she tagged the old bachelor to run in the race.So what could he do but to fall in the lairOf 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 meanFor Malindy to dance and be acting as thoughShe 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 foundA sweet-tempered girl who will care for the woundOf 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 smileFor all the sweet bachelor said, and the while,She hadn’t neglected to listen as wellTo 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 pranceIt started the witling again to the chaseMore hopeful than ever of winning the race;And Malindy led off with her favorite songAnd with her the witling went smiling along.

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 headOf Malinda was wise and more subtlely schemedThan the wittiest lover has ever yet dreamed;She could even walk lame to seem easily caught,And many a lover who ardently soughtTo o’ertake her gave up at the last in despairWhen he found that her halting was only a snare,And a month she’d been leading the witling a chaseWhen she tagged the old bachelor to run in the race.

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 lairOf 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 meanFor Malindy to dance and be acting as thoughShe was tickled to death with a homelier beau.

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 foundA sweet-tempered girl who will care for the woundOf a lover who loses, and teach him a sanity new,And sometimes restore his old vanity, too.

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 smileFor all the sweet bachelor said, and the while,She hadn’t neglected to listen as wellTo 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 pranceIt started the witling again to the chaseMore hopeful than ever of winning the race;And Malindy led off with her favorite songAnd with her the witling went smiling along.

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.

When I was young I often heardThere was no sign or tokenBy which to know a lover’s wordWould not be shortly broken.I feared to trust love to entwineWithout a due reflectionAround this foolish heart of mineTo ravish its affection.I thought ’twould rob my peace of mindAnd force the tear to trickleUpon a fading cheek to findThe love I loved was fickle.And yet it seemed that if I knewA lover not ungracefulAnd I could feel that he was true,I’d surely be as faithful.And really, once there came a beauWho wooed me very kindly,But love is blind, I said, and oh!I feared to love so blindly.And yet it seemed that very dayI found my heart relenting,But he was gone, Oh, gone away!And I was left repenting.So, often now there comes a dayI seem to be expectingThat love will come and come to stay,For I have quit reflecting.

When I was young I often heardThere was no sign or tokenBy which to know a lover’s wordWould not be shortly broken.

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 entwineWithout a due reflectionAround this foolish heart of mineTo ravish its affection.

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 mindAnd force the tear to trickleUpon a fading cheek to findThe love I loved was fickle.

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 knewA lover not ungracefulAnd I could feel that he was true,I’d surely be as faithful.

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 beauWho wooed me very kindly,But love is blind, I said, and oh!I feared to love so blindly.

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 dayI found my heart relenting,But he was gone, Oh, gone away!And I was left repenting.

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 dayI seem to be expectingThat love will come and come to stay,For I have quit reflecting.

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 refrainThat went ’round the room and repeated againWhen the dancing was over. “I’m always reflecting,”Said Roland, quite proudly. “I think you’re expectingThat 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 affairWhich Neoma was hearing with sisterly care.’Twas a subject some slyly had whispered in jest;Louisa denied it at first, then confessedTo 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.

“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.

They tell I passed the store six times to-dayAnd just to get a glimpse of Alfred Gray.The very idea of such a thing!And them a going round a tattlingAs 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 awayAnd never even thought of Alfred Gray.Now let me see. ’Tis about a month or soSince Alfred called—’tis just a month ago.I didn’t say a word to him that nightOf 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 awayI 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 downAnd how I’d begged the postal clerk in vainFor 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 whyI worried ’bout that letter I had sent.’Twas then that all the anger in me pentBurst forth; I said in myseverestway,“’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 lightUpon 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 dignityAnd 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 perplexityIf I should then attempt to tell the wayIt all had come about to Alfred Gray.I felt so ’shamed in writing Alfred, thenAnd 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-dayTo get alittleglimpse of Alfred Gray.It had all been arranged and ’twas timed to the hourFor 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.

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 soSince Alfred called—’tis just a month ago.I didn’t say a word to him that nightOf 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 awayI said, “You’ll get a letter, 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.”

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 downAnd how I’d begged the postal clerk in vainFor 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.

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 whyI worried ’bout that letter I had sent.’Twas then that all the anger in me pentBurst forth; I said in myseverestway,“’Tis you who came ’twixt me and 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 myseverestway,

“’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 lightUpon 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.

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 dignityAnd 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 perplexityIf I should then attempt to tell the wayIt all had come about to 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, thenAnd 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-dayTo get alittleglimpse of 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 alittleglimpse of Alfred Gray.

It had all been arranged and ’twas timed to the hourFor 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.

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.

’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 beenIn my experiences;I never caught among the menThe proper person’s glances.And goodness knows, I’ve often said,Nor would I now deny it,’Tis better far for one to wedOr 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 fateTo 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 stageI’ve never seemed to rue it.Still, ’twasn’t that I wouldn’t haveIf some had made advances,Nor can I say I couldn’t have,For laws! I’ve had my chances.

’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.

’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 beenIn my experiences;I never caught among the menThe proper person’s glances.

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 wedOr do her best to try it;

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 fateTo never have to mind him.

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 stageI’ve never seemed to rue it.

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 haveIf some had made advances,Nor can I say I couldn’t have,For laws! I’ve had my chances.

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 tellHow 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 strongThe 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 worseWhile the dancers all laughed but she kept on a-singingAnd never looked back where the hoops were still clinging.It was a mistake and the chaperon knewThat she should not have sung—she apologized, too—There’s no one can tell what the young people thinkWhen 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 onTill Malindy, ashamed of the things that were done,Took the bachelor out for a short, quiet walkAnd lectured him soundly on orderly talkAnd then he behaved—’tis a marvelous thingWhat order from chaos a woman can bring;But Malindy, of course, had a very wise headAnd none ever knew of the thing that she saidWhen 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 routBy looking askance and pretending to pout.’Twas a trick of Malindy’s—the girls of DinwiddieAll knew it, they laughed and they laughed, oh, so giddy.Tim Dolor, the bashful, could sing very wellWhen 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.

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 knewThat she should not have sung—she apologized, too—There’s no one can tell what the young people thinkWhen 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 onTill Malindy, ashamed of the things that were done,Took the bachelor out for a short, quiet walkAnd lectured him soundly on orderly talk

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 thingWhat order from chaos a woman can bring;But Malindy, of course, had a very wise headAnd none ever knew of the thing that she saidWhen 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 routBy looking askance and pretending to pout.’Twas a trick of Malindy’s—the girls of DinwiddieAll knew it, they laughed and they laughed, oh, so giddy.Tim Dolor, the bashful, could sing very wellWhen 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.

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.

Oh! mother, mother, my poor heartIs all but now a-breaking;I’ve seen a girl with such an artOf ways that were so taking.I thought her smiles were meant for me;I foolishly grew bolder,When from that hour ’twas plain to seeHer smiles were growing colder.I loved her so, she was so fair;With eyes that shone so brightly,And such a dream of golden hairThat 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 smotherSome of these heart-aches while I lieAmong the feathers, mother.But mother, mother, do not cryFor this, your boy’s undoing,If ’mong the feathers I should dieI’ll not regret my wooing.

Oh! mother, mother, my poor heartIs all but now a-breaking;I’ve seen a girl with such an artOf ways that were so taking.

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 seeHer smiles were growing colder.

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 hairThat curled and clustered lightly.

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.

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 smotherSome of these heart-aches while I lieAmong the feathers, mother.

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 cryFor this, your boy’s undoing,If ’mong the feathers I should dieI’ll not regret my wooing.

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 streamThat murmured a strangely mysterious theme;The shy Letha Lane and the bold Roland RareGave a song and a dance that was passingly fair,And so plaintive and sad was the sweet bachelorWhen 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.

’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.

(By the “Oracle.”)

There’s an unfrequented valleyIn the mountain of Somally,Where the skies so lulling seem,That they call the “Happy Hollow,”And you’ll find it if you followUp an ever-winding stream.There if ever you should wander,Linger for awhile to ponderBy the subtle flowing stream,Winding over rude or mallow,Where it murmurs deep or shallowOf a strange, alluring theme.For it springs from hidden fountainsIn the distant, misty mountains,Where it weaves a silver ream.Then it hastens to the valley,There to whirl and sing and dallyIn a dance of crystal gleam.It may seem an idle fancy,Or a scheme of PegomancyThat was practiced long ago,But you’ll find that unexpected,All your being is affectedBy the waters murmuring so.Of the fountains that they sprang from,Of the mountains that they sang fromAt an altitude so highThat they even heard the whispersIn the mornings and the vespersOf the saints that were so nigh.And the waters bring the tidings,And they tell of the abidingsOf departed soulsyouknow,For their voices seemed to followDown into the Happy HollowWhere the winding waters flow.Where a light that has the seemingOf a pure benignly beaming—Ever there the day and night—Brings to you a tranquil feelingThrough its soft rays to you stealingOf a calm, serene delight.Then you’ll fall to sweetly dreamingWhile the mellow light is gleamingOn the ever-winding stream;And the world will turn to smiling,Through the strange and soft beguilingOf the Happy Hollow Dream.You will hear a loved one singing,On the waters that are bringingTo your dream-enraptured ear,Oh! the very tones that ravishedOnce your heart until it lavishedEv’ry love to lovers dear!And beyond the mind’s creation,In a pleasing presentation,Faces to you will appearOf departed ones you well knew,Who will smile as if to tell youThey are ever, ever near.In the mountains of SomallyWhere the stream winds through the valley,And the skies so lulling seem,There the world will turn to smilingThrough the strange and soft beguilingOf the Happy Hollow Dream.

There’s an unfrequented valleyIn the mountain of Somally,Where the skies so lulling seem,That they call the “Happy Hollow,”And you’ll find it if you followUp an ever-winding stream.

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 ponderBy the subtle flowing stream,Winding over rude or mallow,Where it murmurs deep or shallowOf a strange, alluring theme.

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 fountainsIn the distant, misty mountains,Where it weaves a silver ream.Then it hastens to the valley,There to whirl and sing and dallyIn a dance of crystal gleam.

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 PegomancyThat was practiced long ago,But you’ll find that unexpected,All your being is affectedBy the waters murmuring so.

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 fromAt an altitude so highThat they even heard the whispersIn the mornings and the vespersOf the saints that were so nigh.

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 abidingsOf departed soulsyouknow,For their voices seemed to followDown into the Happy HollowWhere the winding waters flow.

And the waters bring the tidings,

And they tell of the abidings

Of departed soulsyouknow,

For their voices seemed to follow

Down into the Happy Hollow

Where the winding waters flow.

Where a light that has the seemingOf a pure benignly beaming—Ever there the day and night—Brings to you a tranquil feelingThrough its soft rays to you stealingOf a calm, serene delight.

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 dreamingWhile the mellow light is gleamingOn the ever-winding stream;And the world will turn to smiling,Through the strange and soft beguilingOf the Happy Hollow Dream.

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 bringingTo your dream-enraptured ear,Oh! the very tones that ravishedOnce your heart until it lavishedEv’ry love to lovers dear!

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 appearOf departed ones you well knew,Who will smile as if to tell youThey are ever, ever near.

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 SomallyWhere the stream winds through the valley,And the skies so lulling seem,There the world will turn to smilingThrough the strange and soft beguilingOf the Happy Hollow Dream.

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 LethaTill she found her at last in a hiding beneath aRound 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.

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.

(By Roland Rare and Letha Lane.)

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