Annie Laurie and Azalea

by Elia Wilkinson Peattie

Indeed, unconsciously, the old man had been taking the covering from the instrument.

“That’s right, that’s right,” Thomas McBirney said. “Tune up, old friend. Then we’ll know that it’s a party for sure.”

And tune up he did. At first it seemed only to be tuning, and they couldn’t tell where he left off getting ready and when he began to play. But by and by there were odd little sounds that might have been squirrels chittering, or birds stirring in their nests. Then they grew sweeter and more liquid and seemed like water running over stones and wind singing in the trees. And by and by the whistle of a robin broke in and then a thrush sang his soul out at the gates of Heaven; then the night seemed to be falling, kindly, as if it would give rest to all the weary. After that it was black for a moment or two, as if a storm was gathering. There seemed to be distant sounds of thunder. But it passed quickly as some nights do, if one is, for example, fifteen, and then the dawn came over the hills, dancing. There must have been blithe maidens ushering it in—for who else would have had such light and lilting feet? Yes, they were dancing down over the hills, scattering flowers, and the birds were perched upon their shoulders and rosy clouds were wreathing them.

At least that was the lovely picture that Haystack Thompson’s music brought to Barbara Summers as she sat holding her little son, and then the next thing she knew all of her friends really were dancing. Ma McBirney was dancing with Mr. Carson, and Pa McBirney had Annie Laurie for a partner, and Sam had Azalea, and Carin was with Dick Heller, and Jim was footing it with Hi’s little sister, and Hi and his mother were making a show of hopping around.

Only Absalom Summers wasn’t dancing, because he was the Methodist minister and didn’t believe in it—at least he said he didn’t. He sat beating juba with his great hands, making a terrific rhythmical accompaniment and crying:

“That’s it—keep it up—go right along on the road to destruction—keep it up there, McBirney—I’m here to see you through.” He threw back his head with its tossed straight hair and gave vent to a roar of laughter.

“You’re a comfortable preacher to have around,” declared Mr. Carson, stopping to catch his breath.

“Comfortable!” roared Mr. Summers, giving a twist to Mr. Carson’s meaning. “I never was so comfortable in my life.”

Miss Adnah and Miss Zillah were helping Ma McBirney to set the table now, and the young people were dashing about on errands, and more friends were coming, some from over the mountains and some up from town, and by and by they all sat down to the table and ate together. There was fried chicken, and rice cooked with cheese, and beaten biscuit, and golden butter in little pats, and cooling drinks of lime and orange and mint, and cakes—three kinds—and ice cream which the Carson’s had brought up in great freezers. It is necessary to tell what there was to eat, because eating is a very important part of a party.

And then there were the gifts to see. Almost everyone had brought a gift. Even some of the people who were passing and who had not known there was to be a party at all, and who perhaps did not know the McBirneys very well, had fished out something from their wagons for the orphan girl who had made so many people love her.