XIII

JOHN’S FIRST PARTY

It turned out that John did not go after all to Cynthia Rudd’s party, having broken through the ice on the river when he was skating that day, and, as the boy who pulled him out said, “come within an inch of his life.”  But he took care not to tumble into anything that should keep him from the next party, which was given with due formality by Melinda Mayhew.

John had been many a time to the house of Deacon Mayhew, and never with any hesitation, even if he knew that both the deacon’s daughters—­Melinda and Sophronia were at home.  The only fear he had felt was of the deacon’s big dog, who always surlily watched him as he came up the tan-bark walk, and made a rush at him if he showed the least sign of wavering.  But upon the night of the party his courage vanished, and he thought he would rather face all the dogs in town than knock at the front door.

The parlor was lighted up, and as John stood on the broad flagging before the front door, by the lilac-bush, he could hear the sound of voices—­girls’ voices—­which set his heart in a flutter.  He could face the whole district school of girls without flinching,—­he didn’t mind ’em in the meeting-house in their Sunday best; but he began to be conscious that now he was passing to a new sphere, where the girls are supreme and superior, and he began to feel for the first time that he was an awkward boy.  The girl takes to society as naturally as a duckling does to the placid pond, but with a semblance of shy timidity; the boy plunges in with a great splash, and hides his shy awkwardness in noise and commotion.

When John entered, the company had nearly all come.  He knew them every one, and yet there was something about them strange and unfamiliar.  They were all a little afraid of each other, as people are apt to be when they are well dressed and met together for social purposes in the country.  To be at a real party was a novel thing for most of them, and put a constraint upon them which they could not at once overcome.  Perhaps it was because they were in the awful parlor,—­that carpeted room of haircloth furniture, which was so seldom opened.  Upon the wall hung two certificates framed in black, —­one certifying that, by the payment of fifty dollars, Deacon Mayhew was a life member of the American Tract Society, and the other that, by a like outlay of bread cast upon the waters, his wife was a life member of the A. B. C. F. M., a portion of the alphabet which has an awful significance to all New England childhood.  These certificates are a sort of receipt in full for charity, and are a constant and consoling reminder to the farmer that he has discharged his religious duties.