When William Larker irrevocably made up his mind to take Mary Kuchenbach to the great county picnic at Blue Bottle Springs he did not tell his father, as was his custom in most matters. To a straight-laced Dunkard like Herman Larker, the very thought of attendance on such a carousal, with its round dancing and square dancing, would have seemed impiety. Henry Kuchenbach was likewise a member of that strict sect, but he was not quite so narrow in his ideas as his more pious neighbor. Yet to him, also, the suggestion of his daughter being a participant in such frivolity would have met with scant approval.

But William was longing to dance. For many years he had fondly cherished the belief that he was possessed of much inborn ability in that art—a genius compelled to remain dormant, by the narrowness of his family’s views. Many a rainy afternoon had he given vent to his desire by swinging corners and deux-et-deux-ing about his father’s barn-floor, with no other partner than a[203] sheaf of wheat and no other music than that produced by his own capacious lips.

So one beautiful July day, when, attired in his best, he stepped into his buggy, tapped his sleek mare with the whip and started at a brisk pace toward the Kuchenbach farm, his stern father believed that he was going to the great bush-meeting, twelve miles up the turnpike and was devoutly thankful to see his son growing in piety. William’s best was a black frock coat, with short tails, trousers of the same material reaching just below his shoe-tops, a huge derby, once black but now green from long exposure to the elements, and a new pair of shoes well tallowed. As he drove up to the gate of the neighboring farm Mary was waiting for him, looking very buxom and rosy and neat in her plain black dress, the sombreness of which was relieved by a white kerchief at the neck and the gray poke bonnet of her sect. As she took the vacant place beside him in the buggy and the vehicle rattled away, Henry Kuchenbach called after them, “Don’t fergit to bring back some o’ the good things the brethren sais.” And good Mrs. Kuchenbach threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ain’t them a lovely pair?”

“Yais,” said her husband grimly, “an’ fer six year they’ve ben keepin’ comp’ny an’ he ain’t yit spoke his mind.”

The buggy sped along the road, the rattle of[204] its wheels, the clatter of the mare’s hoofs and the shrill calls of the killdeer skimming over the meadows, being the sole sounds to break the silence of the country.

A mile was gone over. Then the girl said falteringly, “Beel, a’n’t it wrong?”

In response William gave his horse a vicious cut with the whip and replied, “It don’t seem jest right to fool ’em, but you’ll fergit all about it ’hen we git dancin’.”

There was silence between them—a silence broken only at rare intervals when one or the other ventured some commonplace remark which would be rewarded with a laconic “Yais” or “Ye don’t say.”

Up hill and down rattled the buggy, following the crooked road across the valley, over three low wooded ridges, then up the broad meadows that border the river, until at length the grove in which lies Blue Bottle Spring was reached. The festivities had already begun. The outskirts of the wood were filled with vehicles of every description—buggies, buckboards, spring-wagons, omnibuses and ancient phaetons. The horses had been unhitched and tied to trees and fences, and were munching at their midday meal, gnawing the bark from the limbs, snatching at the leaves or kicking at the flies while their masters gave themselves up to the pursuit of pleasure. Having seen his mare comfortably settled at a small[205] chestnut, William Larker took his lunch basket on one arm and his companion on the other and proceeded eagerly to the inner part of the grove, whence came the sounds of the fiddle and cornet. They passed through the outer circle of elderly women, who were unpacking baskets and tastefully arranging their contents on table-cloths spread on the ground—jars of pickles, cans of fruit, bags of sandwiches, bottles of cold tea, layer cakes of wondrous size and construction, and the scores of other dainties necessary to pass a pleasant day with nature. They went through a second circle of venders of peanuts, lemonade and ice-cream, about whose stands were gathered many elderly men discussing the topics of the day and exchanging greetings.

The young Dunkards had now arrived at the center of interest, the platform, and joined the crowd that was eagerly watching the course of the dance. An orchestra of three pieces, a bass-viol, a violin and a cornet, operated by three men in shirt sleeves, sent forth wheezy strains to the time of which men and women, young and old, gaily swung corners and partners, galloped forward and back, made ladies’ chains, winding in and out, then back and bowing, until William Larker and his companion fairly grew dizzy.

The crowd of dancers was a heterogeneous one. There were young men from the neighboring county town, gorgeous in blazers of variegated[206] colors, and young farmers whose movements were not the less agile for the reason that they wore heavy sombre clothing and high-crowned, broad-brimmed felt hats. There were three particularly forward youths in bicycle attire, and three gay young men from a not far distant city, whose shining silk hats and dancing pumps made them centers of admiration and envy. The women, likewise, went to both extremes. Gaily flowered, airy calico, cashmere and gingham bobbed about among glistening, frigid satins and silks.

“Oh, ain’t it grand?” cried Mary Kuchenbach, clasping her hands.

“That’s good dancin’, I tell ye,” replied her companion with enthusiasm.

She had seated herself on a stump, and he was leaning against a tree at her side, both with eyes fixed on the platform.

Now in seemingly inextricable chaos; now in perfectly orderly form, six sets bowing and scraping; now winding into a dazzling mass of silk, calico, high hats, felt hats, flower-covered bonnets and blazers, then out again went the dancers.

“Good dancin’, I should say!” William exclaimed. “Jest look at them th’ee ceety fellys, with them shiny hats, a-swingin’ corners. Now, a’n’t they cuttin’ it? Next comes ‘a-la-man-all.’ Watch ’em—them two in the fur set—the way they th’ow their feet—the gal in pink with the felly in short pants an’ a stripped coat. Now[207] back! Thet there is dancin’, I tell ye, Mary! ‘Gents dozy-dough’ next. Thet ’ere felly don’t call figgers loud ’nough. There they goes—bad in the rear set—thet’s better. See them ceety fellys agin, swingin’ partners. Grand chain! Good all ’round&............