.

Some artistic soul, with a memory of urban ways, made long ropes of
evergreens and hung them in garlands from the rafters, a flag was
draped above the fireplace, lanterns were hung ready to light.

Distant "neighbors" kept flocking in all day, each bringing a
neighborly offering; fresh pork from the owner of an only shoat; choice
venison steaks; bear meat from a hunter who explained that the bear had
been killed months before and kept frozen in the meat house. Wild
raspberry jam, with finer flavor than any I have ever tasted before or
since, was brought by a bachelor who vied with the women folks when it
came to cookery. The prize offering, however, were some mountain
trout, speared through the ice of a frozen stream.

Dancing began early. The music was supplied by an old-time fiddler who
jerked squeaky tunes from an ancient violin, singing and shouting the
dance calls by turns. Voice, fiddle and feet, beating lusty time to
his tunes, went incessantly. He had an endless repertoire, and a
talent for fitting the names of the dancers to his ringing rimes.

Some of his offerings were:

"Lady round lady and gents so low!
First couple lead to right--
Lady round lady and gents so low--
Lady round gent and gent don't go--
Four hands half and right and left."

The encores he would improvise:

"Hit the lumber with your leather--
Balance all, an' swing ter left."

All swayed rhythmically, beating time with their feet, clapping their
hands, bowing, laughing. The men threw in their fancy steps, their
choice parlor tricks. A few performed a double shuffle; one a pigeon's
wing; a couple of trappers did an Indian dance, twisting their bodies
into grotesque contortions and every so often letting out a yell that
made one's hair stand on end.

There was little rest between the dances, for the old fiddler had
marvelous powers of endurance. He sawed away, perspired, shouted and
sang as though his life depended on his performance. He was having as
good, or better time, than anyone. With scarcely a moment to breathe
he'd launch into another call--and not once the whole night through did
he repeat:

"Ole Buffler Bill--Buffler Bill!
Never missed an' never will."

Then as the dancers promenaded he'd switch to a new improvisation,
ending in a whirlwind of wit and telling personalities, which sent the
company into hysterical laughter. I joined in the dance, rather
gawkily no doubt, for my moth