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 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 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 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 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 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—no—there’s a break. See thet girl in blue sating—she turned too soon. Thet’s better. T’other way—bow yer corners—now yer own. What! so soon? Why, they otter kep’ it up.”

The music had stopped. The dancers, panting from their exertions, mopping and fanning, left the platform and scattered among the audience.

William Larker’s eyes were aglow. His companion, seated upon the stump, gazed curiously, timidly, at the gay crowd about her, while he stood frigidly beside her mentally picturing the pleasure to come. He was to dance to real music with a flesh-and-blood partner after all those years of secret practise with a wheat sheaf in the seclusion of his father’s barn. He was to put his arms around Mary Kuchenbach. His feet could hardly keep still when a purely imaginary air floated through his brain and he fancied himself “dozy-doughing” and “goin’-a-visitin’” with the rosy girl at his side.

The man with the bass-viol was rubbing resin on his bow, the violinist was tuning up and the cornetist giving the stops of his instrument the usual preliminary exercise when the floor-master announced the next dance. One after another the couples sifted from the crowd and clambered on to the platform.

“Two more pair,” cried the conductor.

“Come ’long, Mary. Now’s our chancet,” whispered the young Dunkard to his companion.

“Oh, Beel, really I can’t. I never danced in puberlick afore.”

“But you kin. It ain’t hard. All ye’ll hev to do is to keep yer feet a-movin’ an’ mind the felly thet’s callin’ figgers.”

The girl hesitated.

“One more couple,” roared the floor-master.

William was getting excited.

“You can dance with the best of ’em. Come ’long.”

“Really now, Beel, jest a minute.”

The twang of the fiddle commenced and the cracked, quavering notes of the horn arose above the buzz of conversation.

“Bow yer corners—now yer own,” cried the leader.

And the young man sat down on the stump in disgust.

“We’ll hev to git in the next,” he said. “Why, it’s eesy. You see this here’s only a plain quadreel. Ye otter see one thet ain’t plain—one o’ them where they hes sech figgers ez ‘first lady on the war-dance,’ like they done at the big weddin’ up in Raccoon Walley th’ee year ago. These is plain. I never danced ’em afore meself, but I’ve seen ’em do it an’ I’ve ben practisin’. All ye’ll hev to do is to mind me.”

So the following dance found them on the platform among the first. The girl was trembling, blushing and self-conscious; the young man self-conscious but triumphant and composed.

“Bow yer partners,” cried the floor-master when the orchestra had started its scraping.

Down went the gray poke bonnet. Down went the great derby, and a smile of joy overspread the broad face beneath it.

“Swing yer partners!”

The great arms went around the plump form, lifting it from its feet; their owner spun about, carefully replaced his burden on the floor, bowed, smiled and whispered, “Ain’t it grand?”

“Corners!”

The young woman in blue satin gave a slight scream that was metamorphosed into a giggle, as she felt herself swung through space in the arms of the muscular person toward whom she had careened. Her partner, one of the city men with silk hats, grinned and whispered in her ear, “Oatcake.”

“Leads for’a’d an’ back!”

William Larker seized his partner’s plump hand and bounded forward, bowing and twisting, his free arm gesticulating in unison with his legs and feet. He was in the thick of the dance now; in it with his whole heart. Whenever there was any “dozy-doughing” to be done, William did it. If a couple went “visitin’,” he was with them. When “ladies in the center” was called, he was there. In every grand chain he turned the wrong way. He gripped the women’s hands until they groaned inwardly. He tramped on and crushed the patent leather pumps of a young city man, and in response to a muttered something smiled his unconcern, bolted back to his corner, swung his partner and murmured, “Ain’t it grand?” The young women giggled and winked at their acquaintances in the next set; the forward youth in a bicycle suit talked about roadsweepers, and the city man said again, “Oatcake.”

But the young Dunkard was unconscious of it all to the end—the end that came most suddenly and broke up the dancing.

“Swing yer partners!” bawled the floor-master.

William Larker obeyed. A ragged bit of the sole of his shoe caught in a crack and over he went, off the high platform, with his partner clasped tight in his arms.

When he recovered his senses he found himself lying by the spring, the center of all eyes. His first glance fell upon Mary, who was seated at his side, weeping heartily, despite the efforts of a large crowd of sympathizing women to allay her fears.

Next his eyes met those of the young woman in blue satin, and he saw her laugh and turn and speak to the crowd. He thought that he noticed a silk hat and heard the word “Oatcake.” And then and there he resolved to return to and never again depart from the quiet ways of his fathers.

William and Mary drove back in the early evening. They had crossed the last ridge and were looking out over the broad valley toward the dark mountain at whose foot lay their homes, when the first word was spoken.

“Beel,” said the girl with a sidelong glance, “ain’t dancin’ dangerous?”

The young man cut the mare with the whip and flushed.

“Yais, kind o’,” he replied. “But I’m sorry I drug you off o’ the platform like thet.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. William just saw the corner of one of her eyes as she looked up at him from under the gray bonnet.

“Oh, I didn’t min’ thet,” she said. “It was jes’ lovely tell we hit.”

The mare swerved to one side, toward the fence. The driver seized the rein he had dropped and pulled her back into the beaten track. Then the whip fell from his hands, and he stopped and clambered down into the road and recovered it. But when he regained his place in the buggy he wrapped his reins twice around the whip, and the intelligent beast trotted home unguided.