A corn-planting Bee.

Plauterkill Clove. May.

The people who inhabit that section of country lying between the Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River, are undoubtedly the legitimate descendants of the far-famed Rip Van Winkle. Dutch blood floweth in their veins, and their names, appearance, manners, are all Dutch, and Dutch only. The majority of them are engaged in tilling the soil, and as they seem to be satisfied with a bare competency, the peacefulness of their lives is only equalled by their ignorance of books, and the world at large. The height of their ambition is to enjoy a frolic, and what civilized people understand by that term, they designate a Bee. Not only have they their wedding and funeral Bees, but they commemorate their agricultural labours with a Bee, and of these, the Corn-Planting Bee, which I am about to describe, is a fair specimen.

A certain old Dutchman of my acquaintance had so long neglected the field where he intended to plant his corn, that he found it necessary to retrieve his reputation by getting up a Bee. He therefore immediately issued his verbal invitations, and at two o’clock on the appointed day, about seventy of his neighbours, including men and women, made their appearance at his dwelling, each one of them furnished with a hoe and a small bag to carry the seed. After supplying his guests with all they wanted in the way of spiritual drink, my friend gave the signal, and shouldering a large hoe started off for the field of action, closely followed by his neighbours, who fell to work lustily. The field was large, but as the planters were numerous, it was entirely planted at least two hours before sunset, when the party was disbanded, with the express understanding resting upon their minds that they should invite their children to the dance, which was to take place in the evening at the Bee-giver’s residence.

The house of my farmer friend having been originally built for a tavern, it happened to contain a large ball-room, and on this occasion it was stripped of its beds and bedding, and the walls thereof decked from top to bottom with green branches and an occasional tallow candle, and conspicuous at one end of the hall was a refreshment establishment, well supplied with pies, gingerbread, molasses, candy and cigars, with an abundance of coloured alcohols.

The number of young men and women who came together on the occasion was about one hundred, and while they were trimming themselves for the approaching dance, the musician, a huge, long-legged and bony Dutchman, was tuning a rusty fiddle. The thirty minutes occupied by him in this interesting business were employed by the male portion of the guests in “wetting their whistles.” The dresses worn on the occasion were eminently rustic and unique. Those of the gentlemen, for the most part, were made of a coarse grey cloth, similar to that worn by the residents on Blackwell’s Island, while the ladies were arrayed in white cotton, trimmed with a narrow scarlet ribbon. Pumps being out of vogue, cow-hide boots were worn by the former, and calf brogans by the latter.

All things being now ready, a terribly loud shriek came from the poor little fiddle, and the clattering of heels commenced, shaking the building to its very foundation. “On with the dance, let joy be unconfined,” seemed to be the motto of all present; and from the start, there seemed to be a strife between the male and the female dancers, as to who should leap the highest and make the most noise. Desperate were the efforts of the musician, as he toiled away upon his instrument, keeping discord with his heels; and every unusual wail of the fiddle was the forerunner of a profuse perspiration, which came rolling off of the fiddler’s face to the floor. And then the joyous delirium of the musician was communicated to the dancers, and as the dance proceeded, their efforts became still more desperate; the women wildly threw back their hair, and many of the men took off their coats, and rolled up their shirt-sleeves for the purpose of keeping cool. In spite of every effort, however, the faces of the dancers became quite red with the excitement, and the hall was filled with a kind of heated fog, in which the first “break-down” of the evening concluded.

Then followed the refreshment scene. The men drank whisky and smoked cigars, while the women feasted upon mince-pies, drank small beer, and sucked molasses candy. Some of the smaller men, or boys, who were too lazy to dance, sneaked off into an out-of-the-way room for the purpose of pitching pennies; while a few couples, who were victims to the tender passion, retired to some cozy nook, to bask unobserved in each other’s smiles.

But now the screeching fiddle is again heard above the murmur of talking and laughing voices, and another rush is made for the sanded floor. Another dance is there enjoyed, differing from the one already described only in its increased extravagance. After sawing away for a long time, as if for dear life, the musician is politely requested to play a new tune. Promptly does he assent to the proposition, but having started on a fresh key, he soon falls into the identical strain, which had kept him busy for the previous hour; so that the philosophic listener is compelled to conclude that the fiddler either cannot play more than one tune, or that he has a particular passion for the monotonous and nameless one to which he so closely clings. And thus, with many indescribable variations does the ball continue throughout the entire night.

I did not venture to trip the “light fantastic toe” on the occasion in question, but my enjoyment as a calm spectator was very amusing and decidedly original. Never before had I seen a greater amount of labour performed by men and women in the same time. I left this interesting assembly about midnight, fully satisfied with what I had seen and heard; but I was afterwards told that I missed more than “half the fun.”

When the music was loudest, so it appears, and the frenzy of the dance at its climax, a select party of Dutch gentlemen were suddenly seized with an appetite for some more substantial food than had yet been given them. They held a consultation on the important subject, and finally agreed to ransack the garret and cellar of their host for the purpose of satisfying their natural desires. In the former place they found a good supply of dried beef, and in the latter, a few loaves of bread and a jar of rich cream, upon which they regaled themselves without favour, but with some fear. The giver of the Bee subsequently discovered what had been done, and though somewhat more than “three sheets in the wind” slyly sent for a pair of constables, who soon made their appearance, and arrested the thieving guests, who were held to bail in the sum of fifty dollars each. I was also informed that the dance was kept up until six o’clock in the morning, and that the appearance of my friend’s establishment, and the condition of his guests at seven o’clock, was ridiculous in the extreme. A small proportion of the Bee-party only had succeeded in starting for home, so that the number who, from excess of drinking and undue fatigue had retired to repose, was not far from three score and ten. The sleeping accommodation of the host was limited, and the consequence was, that his guests had to shift for themselves, as they best could. The floors of every room in the house, including the pantries, were literally covered with men and women; some of them moaning with a severe head-ache, some breathing audibly in a deep sleep, and others snoring in the loudest and most approved style. By twelve o’clock, the interesting company had stolen off to their several homes, and the Corn-Planting Bee, among the Catskills, was at an end.