Mr. Toombs, a young minister, who had been settled six or seven years, and loved the commandments of religion much better than the creed of theology, entered into it at once, and promised to come, and not wear his white cravat.  His wife, Sally Wilkins that used to be, took to it with all her might.

So all things were made ready.  Farmers sent in apples and boiled chestnuts; and there were pies, and cookies, and all manner of creature comforts.  The German who worked for the cabinet-maker decorated the hall, just as he had done in Wittenberg often before; for he was an exile from the town where Martin Luther sleeps, and his Katherine, under the same slab.  There were branches of Holly with their red berries, Wintergreen and Pine boughs, and Hemlock and Laurel, and such other handsome things as New England can afford even in winter.  Besides, Captain Weldon brought a great Orange-tree, which he and Susan had planted the day after their marriage, nearly thirty years before.  “Like Christmas itself,” as he said,—­“it is a history and a prophecy; full of fruit and flowers, both.”  Roses, and Geraniums, and Chrysanthemums, and Oleanders were there, adding to the beauty.

All the children in the village were there.  Sally Bright wore the medal she won the last quarter at the Union School.  Sip Tidy’s six children were there; and all the girls and boys from the poor-house.  The Widow Wheeler and her children thought no more of the railroad accident.  Captain Weldon, Deacon Jackson and his wife, and the Minister were there; all the Selectmen, and the Town Clerk, and the Schoolmasters and Schoolma’ams, and the Know-nothing Representative from the South Parish; great, broad-shouldered farmers came in, with Baldwin apples in their cheeks as well as in their cellars at home, and their trim tidy wives.  Eight or ten Irish children came also,—­Bridget, Rosanna, Patrick, and Michael, and Mr. And Mrs. O’Brien themselves.  Aunt Kindly had her piano there, and played and sung.

Didn’t they all have a good time?  Old Joe Roe, the black fiddler, from Beaver Brook, Mill Village, was over there; and how he did play! how they did dance!  Commonly, as the young folks said, he could play only one tune, “Joe Roe and I;” for it is true that his sleepy violin did always seem to whine out, “Joe Roe and I, Joe Roe and I, Joe Roe and I.”  But now the old fiddle was wide awake.  He cut capers on it; and made it laugh, and cry, and whistle, and snort, and scream.  He held it close to his ear, and rolled up the whites of his eyes, and laughed a great, loud, rollicking laugh; and he made his fiddle laugh, too, right out.

The young people had their games.  Boston, Puss in the Corner, Stir you must, Hunt the Squirrel round the Woods, Blind Man’s Buff, and Jerusalem.  Mr. Atkins, who built the hall, and was a strict Orthodox man a Know-nothing, got them to play “Break the Pope’s neck,” which made a deal of fun.  The oldest people sung some of the old New England tunes, in the old New England way.  How well they went off! in particular,