the dancing."

"The children can't dance," said Uncle Nathan; "you know there never was
a dancing-school in town."

"Yes they can," said Kindly. "The girls will dance by nature, and the
boys will fall in, rather more clumsily of course. But it will do well
enough for us. Besides, they have all had more practice than you think
for. You shall get the pine-tree, or hemlock, and buy the things,--I'll
tell you what, to-morrow morning,--and I will manage the rest."

The next morning it was fine, bright weather; and the garments blossomed
white on the clotheslines all round the village; and with no small
delight the housewives looked on these perennial hanging-gardens,
periodically blooming, even in a New England winter. Uncle Nathan
mentioned his sister's plan to one of his neighbors, who said, "Never'll
go here!" "But why not?" "Oh, there's Deacon Willberate and Squire Allen
are at loggerheads about the allusion to slavery which Rev. Mr. Freeman
made in his prayer six months ago. They had a quarrel then, you know,
and have not spoken since. If the Deacon likes it, the Squire won't, and
_vice versa_. Then, Colonel Stearns has had a quarrel and a lawsuit with
John Wilkinson about that little patch of meadow. They won't go; each is
afraid of meeting the other. Half the parish has some _miff_ against the
other half. I believe there never was such a place for little quarrels
since the Dutch took Holland. There's a tempest in every old woman's
teapot. Widow Seedyweedy won't let her daughters come, because, as she
says, you are a temperance man, and said, at the last meeting, that rum
made many a widow in Soitgoes, and sent three quarters of the paupers to
the almshouse. She declared, the next day, that you were 'personal, and
injured her feelings; and 'twas all because you was rich and she was a