"Oh, when er don't rain, er don't need it, rad di di da di di da."
The old fellow keeps on playing, while the traveler again reflects a moment; one thing is certain, it is raining too hard to proceed, and he must stop; and a happy idea suggests itself. Hitherto the man with the fiddle had only played one part of the tune, and it seemed to be a favorite air; and the traveler, who is himself a master violinist and composer, says:
"I say, ole man," (the reader will remember I give it as the darkey recited it), "why don't yer play de rest ob dat piece? rad di di da di di da da."
All this time the dance is progressing, and the young folks "spreading" themselves, and full of glee, at the recitation, while the violinist almost excels himself.
"Don't know no more; does you know it all? rad di di da."
"Sartinly, I does." Instantly the old man springs from the whisky barrel, invites the traveler to dismount, orders one of his own little urchins to put the traveler's horse in the stable, tells his wife to get supper, assures the traveler that his son will soon be back from mill; has a chicken taken down and killed for supper, has a jug of whisky brought in from the smoke-house, and assures the traveler that they are not so nearly starved out as he had a moment before supposed; then mounting his guest on the whisky barrel, gives him the fiddle, and calls for the balance of the tune, which was played with a gusto, and christened the "Arkansas Traveler," since so popular among violinists.
The dance was exceedingly amusing. The girls moved very lightly and with considerable grace; but the men made a tremendous lumbering over the loose puncheon floor. When it came to the "balance all," the heeling and toeing of those heavy boots, was positively horrifying; but the "swing" was rendered with such a hearty good will, and the girls seemed to enjoy it so well, that I almost wished I was a dancer myself.
The bride showed us to the supper room, where we found a table loaded with every luxury which the State could afford. We did justice to the viands, and then went back to the dance. The bride was anxious to dance with me; at least her uncle told me so; and I felt considerably abashed, when I told him I could not dance. Not to be able to dance, in Arkansas, is as bad as to be no horseman, in Texas. The bride went through one set with her uncle, who appeared to be about the best dancer in the house. The girls all seemed to vie with her, which made me conclude that they wished themselves in her place; while the lady herself acted and looked as pretty as she knew how.
The fiddler threw all his powers into his playing and his stentorian voice; and the men heeled and toed with a hearty goodwill, and the puncheons rattled beneath their measured, swinging tread. It was a complete and graphic picture of good old fashioned social life. Indeed, the dancers exerted themselves so long, and well, that the puncheons seemed to take up their spirit, and appeared as if endeavoring to extemporize a hornpipe on their own hook. I had often heard the old story of the man in Arkansas who gathered up half a bushel of toe nails on his floor, after a dance; and I was scarcely inclined to doubt its truth, after what I witnessed on that night.
We enjoyed ourselves hugely, till after twelve o'clock, when we went back to my friend's house. When I was about to start, on the following day, he insisted that I should remain longer with him; but I urged the pressing state of affairs, telling him that we Southerners must take the field, as quickly as possible, if we would prevent the country from being overrun by the Yankee vandals of the North. Excuse me, reader, but I was talking at a mark then.