scurry, light-footed as a rout of fairies. Meanwhile the toe of
his right boot counted the increasing tempo until it came up and
down like a ratchet.

Darius Olin was mostly of a slow and sober manner. To cross his
legs and feel a fiddle seemed to throw his heart open and put him
in full gear. Then his thoughts were quick, his eyes merry, his
heart was a fountain of joy. He would lean forward, swaying his
head, and shouting "Yip!" as the bow hurried. D'ri was a
hard-working man, but the feel of the fiddle warmed and limbered
him from toe to finger. He was over-modest, making light of his
skill if he ever spoke of it, and had no ear for a compliment.
While our elders were dancing, I and others of my age were playing
games in the kitchen--kissing-games with a rush and tumble in them,
puss-in-the-corner, hunt-the-squirrel, and the like. Even then I
thought I was in love with pretty Rose Merriman. She would never
let me kiss her, even though I had caught her and had the right.
This roundelay, sung while one was in the centre of a circling
group, ready to grab at the last word, brings back to me the sweet
faces, the bright eyes, the merry laughter of that night and others
like it:

Oh, hap-py is th' mil-ler who
lives by him-self! As th' wheel gos round, he
gath-ers in 'is wealth, One hand on the
hop-per and the oth-er on the bag; As the
wheel goes round, he cries out, "Grab!" Oh,
ain't you a lit-tle bit a-shamed o' this, Oh,
ain't you a lit-tle bit a-sham'd o' this, Oh,
ain't you a lit-tle bit a-sham'd o' this--To