When this cavalcade of six horses had arrived within about two miles of the Irishman’s cabin, quite a large party was found assembled from the log huts scattered several miles around.  David, kind-hearted, generous, obliging, was very popular with his neighbors.  They had heard of the approaching nuptials of the brave boy of but eighteen years, and of the wrath of the brawling, ill-tempered mother.  They anticipated a scene, and wished to render David the support of their presence and sympathy.  This large party, some on foot and some on horseback, proceeded together to the Irishman’s cabin.  The old man met them with smiles, whiskey bottle in hand, ready to offer them all a drink.  The wife, however, was obdurate as ever.  She stood at the cabin door, her eyes flashing fire, and quite bewildered to decide in what way to attempt to repel and drive off her foe.

She expected that the boy would come alone, and that, with her all-potent tongue, she would so fiercely assail him and so frighten her young girl as still to prevent the marriage.  But here was quite an army of the neighbors, from miles around, assembled.  They were all evidently the friends of David.  Every eye was fixed upon her.  Every ear was listening to hear what she would say.  Every tongue was itching to cry out shame to her opposition, and to overwhelm her with reproaches.  For once the termagant found herself baffled, and at her wits’ end.

The etiquette of courts and cabins are quite different.  David paid no attention to the mother, but riding up to the door of the log house, leading the horse for his bride, he shouted to her to come out.  The girl had enjoyed no opportunity to pay any attention to her bridal trousseau.  But undoubtedly she had contrived to put on her best attire.  We do not know her age, but she was ever spoken of as a remarkably pretty little girl, and was probably about seventeen years old.

David did not deem it necessary to dismount, but called upon his “girl” to jump upon the horse he was leading.  She did so.  The mother was powerless.  It was a waterloo defeat.  In another moment they would disappear, riding away along the road, which wound through the gigantic trees of the forest.  In another hour they would be married.  And then they would forever be beyond the reach of the clamor of her voluble tongue.  She began to relent.  The old man, accustomed to her wayward humors, instinctively perceived it.  Stepping up to David, and placing his hand upon the neck of his horse, he said: 

“I wish you would stay and be married here.  My woman has too much tongue.  You oughtn’t mind her.”

Having thus, for a moment, arrested their departure, he stepped back to the door, where his discomfited wife stood, and entreated her to consent to their being married there.  After much persuasion, common sense triumphed over uncommon stubbornness.  She consented.  David and his expectant bride were both on horseback, all ready to go.  The woman rather sullenly came forward and said: