# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/An American apple frolic

​ ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/389 ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/390 ​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/391 ​tables. Candles have long been lighted superfluously, for the blaze of the fire has thrown sufficient light on our proceedings, leaving those convenient shadows that favoured an accidental clasp of hands, nay, even of a stolen kiss perchance. The tables reinstated, preparations are made to recruit our weariness. Fat Jedediah Holmes, the seat of whose soul must be his diaphragm, who had peeped into the larder, informed us early in the evening, in an unctuous whisper, of the various good things he had seen there, in meditation on which doubtless he has been engaged hitherto; his little eyes now twinkle with gladness as he sees the rustic delicacies arranged upon the festive board: cold roast pig—not a blossom, but a matured flower in ell its swinish beauty and fragrance—flanked by roast turkeys, ham, grouse; baked beans, apple sauce, Indian bread, apple pies, delicate cakes of various kinds filling up the intervals. Cider sparkles in portly jugs, with coffee for those who prefer it. Abijah acts as croupier to Miss Sprague, who invites the young folks to seat themselves on the long benches on either hand. Some tact is needed to seat the damsels as they would wish, without requiring them to state their preferences more openly than befits a maidenly reserve. We are placed next to those bewildering blue eyes, that are, however, provokingly directed to her plate—dear angel, what an excellent appetite she has!—but she is not singular; exercise, the cold weather, and a good conscience renders us all valiant trenchermen and women: our friend Jedediah's eyes fairly start from his head in consequence of his exertions; he is never gallant at meal times—he is too busy. Fearing that he is unwell, from the distress he manifests toward the close of the symposium, we sympathisingly suggest a glass of water. "You darned fool," he gasps, thanklessly, "if I had room left for water, do you suppose I would not have eaten more pig?" What could be replied to such an argument?
At length, appetite being appeased, the guests rise, the tables again emigrate, and old Abijah produces that celebrated violin, at the sound of which everybody becomes harmoniously convulsed. Everybody dances with everybody, and they do not seem at all lethargic after their late trencher-work. We ourselves dance a little to the inspiring rhythms of the "Arkansas Traveller" with the blue-eyed charmer. But joys must have an end. We go out to the stables, for it is eleven o'clock, and harness up our teams; the damsels vanish to their secret retreat, shortly to reappear equipped for travel. Fresh kissing (among the ladies), hands shaken, farewells said, expressions of delight in having spent so pleasant an evening. The hospitable hostess makes her appearance with a prodigious jug, whence she presents the parting guest with a glass of some rich ambrosia, termed egg-nogg, designed, as she says in a motherly way, as a preventive to the cold night-air.
We enter our respective sleighs, departing in various directions. Again our gallant steeds breast the keen air, dashing homeward over the white plain beneath the glittering stars. Another sleigh going in the same direction, naturally a race ensues. The girls, dear creatures! becoming excited, urge on our too willing charioteer, the consequence of which is, that in the earnestness of the struggle, he runs us against a stump emergent from the snow, and with a sudden jar we are thrown out on the ground. But such an occurrence is devoid of danger, the snow yields to our weight, being soft as a feather bed. Arising thence laughingly, and shaking their ruffled plumage to free it from any adhering crystals, the damsels permit us to replace them, rather enjoying the occurrence than otherwise. The night is musical with their ringing laughter and soft voices, and Phaeton beguiles the road by waking the astonished "night owl with a catch." Towards the close of the journey, however, they mostly relapse into musing silence—for even joy wearies—whence they are aroused only by the reappearance of the old familiar scenes. At length we descry the light in the happy home where love is waking; the watch-dog rushes out at the clangour of the approaching bells to welcome us with exultant look. We reach the door, the revellers enter, the horses retreat to their warm bed, a murmur of glad voices arises, with questionings and replies, succeeded by a temporary silence; then the voice of prayer and praise amends for the safe family reunion; the household separate to their respective dormitories; lights flit from room to room, but shortly are extinguished, and the house slumbers in darkness beneath the watchful stars, haunted perchance by dreams of the past gladness of the Apple-frolic.
Francis Morton.
MAUDE CLARE.
The fields were white with lily-buds, White gleamed the lilied beck; Each mated pigeon plumed the pomp Of his metallic neck.
She follow'd his bride into the church, With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen.