Thence, coloring like a wild rose, she was
dragged by a boisterous bevy of girls in linsey-woolsey to the spreading
maple of the forest that stood on the high bank over the stream. The
assembly fell solemn, and not a sound was heard save the breathing of
Nature in the heyday of her time. And though I was happy, the sobs rose
in my throat. There stood Polly Ann, as white now as the bleached linen
she wore, and Tom McChesney, tall and spare and broad, as strong a figure
of a man as ever I laid eyes on. God had truly made that couple for
wedlock in His leafy temple.
The deep-toned words of the preacher in prayer broke the stillness. They
were made man and wife. And then began a day of merriment, of
unrestraint, such as the backwoods alone knows. The feast was spread out
in the long grass under the trees--sides of venison, bear meat, corn-pone
fresh baked by Mrs. McChesney and Polly Ann herself, and all the
vegetables in the patch. There was no stint, either, of maple beer and
rum and "Black Betty," and toasts to the bride and groom amidst gusts of
laughter "that they might populate Kaintuckee." And Polly Ann would have
it that I should sit by her side under the maple.
The fiddlers played, and there were foot races and shooting matches. Ay,
and wrestling matches in the severe manner of the backwoods between the
young bucks, more than one of which might have ended seriously were it
not for the high humor of the crowd.
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