The long whips cracked, the bells jingled, the impatient horses plunged forward and away they went over the glistening snow.  The night was clear and cold; countless stars blinked in the black vault overhead; the pale moon cast its wintry light down on a white and frozen world.  As the runners glided swiftly and smoothly onward showers of dry snow like fine powder flew from under the horses’ hoofs and soon whitened the black-robed figures in the sleds.  The way led down the hill past the Fort, over the creek bridge and along the road that skirted the Black Forest.  The ride was long; it led up and down hills, and through a lengthy stretch of gloomy forest.  Sometimes the drivers walked the horses up a steep climb and again raced them along a level bottom.  Making a turn in the road they saw a bright light in the distance which marked their destination.  In five minutes the horses dashed into a wide clearing.  An immense log fire burned in front of a two-story structure.  Streams of light poured from the small windows; the squeaking of fiddles, the shuffling of many feet, and gay laughter came through the open door.

The steaming horses were unhitched, covered carefully with robes and led into sheltered places, while the merry party disappeared into the house.

The occasion was the celebration of the birthday of old Dan Watkins’ daughter.  Dan was one of the oldest settlers along the river; in fact, he had located his farm several years after Col.  Zane had founded the settlement.  He was noted for his open-handed dealing and kindness of heart.  He had loaned many a head of cattle which had never been returned, and many a sack of flour had left his mill unpaid for in grain.  He was a good shot, he would lay a tree on the ground as quickly as any man who ever swung an axe, and he could drink more whiskey than any man in the valley.

Dan stood at the door with a smile of welcome upon his rugged features and a handshake and a pleasant word for everyone.  His daughter Susan greeted the men with a little curtsy and kissed the girls upon the cheek.  Susan was not pretty, though she was strong and healthy; her laughing blue eyes assured a sunny disposition, and she numbered her suitors by the score.

The young people lost no time.  Soon the floor was covered with their whirling forms.

In one corner of the room sat a little dried-up old woman with white hair and bright dark eyes.  This was Grandma Watkins.  She was very old, so old that no one knew her age, but she was still vigorous enough to do her day’s work with more pleasure than many a younger woman.  Just now she was talking to Wetzel, who leaned upon his inseparable rifle and listened to her chatter.  The hunter liked the old lady and would often stop at her cabin while on his way to the settlement and leave at her door a fat turkey or a haunch of venison.

“Lew Wetzel, I am ashamed of you.”  Grandmother Watkins was saying.  “Put that gun in the corner and get out there and dance.  Enjoy yourself.  You are only a boy yet.”