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.
So there was the little gold watch from Mrs. Carson, and the ivory toilet set from Carin, a set of Tennyson from Mr. Carson, and a handmade petticoat from Annie Laurie, and some old eardrops of pink coral made into a brooch by Miss Adnah, and a knitted shoulder shawl from Miss Zillah, and a kind of zither thing that Sam had made himself, and a box of sweets from Dick Heller, and—are you out of breath? Because there are ever so many more things. There was a rag rug, beautifully woven, from Mrs. Kitchell, and a whisk broom holder from Hi, and a wonderful melon-shaped basket, fine and delicate, from Haystack Thompson, who knew more than most about weaving baskets, and there was a white parasol from Ma McBirney—who never could afford a parasol for herself—and a new riding whip from Pa McBirney, and from Jim a new curry comb which he said he would use when he curried Paprika, the pony. And then other people, about whom you know nothing, brought their contributions. Everything was laid out in that pleasant, open chamber, which it will be remembered divided the McBirney house in two.