Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1898 — A FARM CHRISTMAS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A FARM CHRISTMAS.

STORY OF THE DAY'S CELEBRATION IS TRULY TOLD. Moaeatau PraqaiwHawi for tfoc Dißaer of Diaaera—Aad Fiaally the Forty at Faraier Hawkiae* oa That Memorable Christcaaa tve.

HE week. before Christmas. Hog killing is over, ill the turkeys are dressed and sent to town. Suppressed excitement rules inside the house and out. Extra hands are busy over the last bit of cornhashing. Bump, bump, bum pet y bump, the wagon move* slowly over the frozen ground.

Two stalwart fellows in jean trousers, ducking coats and woolen comforters follow the wagon, keeping up a enuinuons fire of ears of corn into the box. With gathering thoughts of Christmas trees, play partie*, dances and taffy pullings, the husking grows furious, and twice before noon the wagon bed is filled. Thumb stalls and husking pegs are much in demand. The boys ail around the kitchen fire at night nursing bfistervd thumbs and awkwardly sewing finger stalls of drilling, double in thickness and fastened on the handsssecurely with leather strings. “ ’Clare ter goodness hits nuff ter p'voke er saint, hit is dat.” declares the old colored auntie. “Da's dem cookies, hunt to a plum crisp an’ me can’t git to de oven ’dont trompin on somebody's corns. Da’s

around “Ole Sorrel’s” neck and sliding down her forelegs to the ground. He is riding bareback. “Oar folks is goin’ to give a party?’ he announced. “When?” about Bob and the others, in great excitement. “Night ’fore Chris’mas: ’n I'm goin’ 'round to tell erer’body, right this morninT “Play party?” “Yep! Pa says he don’t care fer ’em dancin', bat ma says ’at you have to take up the carpets, er have ’em ruint. An’ then, ma says she don’t know as it’s right fer church members.” Tom's invitation, delivered with many issnranees that “You must be sure to

come; we'll all be a lookin’ for you,” creates no small commotion at the house. Before the day is over it is known that the party will be a big affair. Christmas eve finally comes. The whole neighborhood is agog. In the course of

dem pigs’ feet in de ashes need scrapin’ deee two houahs! Git oat o’ beab! Es yo’ des tek yosefs off. soon's I get er minnit’s peace, I mek yo’ fawty 'leven fingah Stalls.” As this is what the boys have all been waiting to hear they troop out instantly, making a mental memorandum of “neckerchers” and bandana “head han*kerchers” which Aunt Maria wants for Christmas. By 5 o'clock the next morning, while the stars are still shining, the wagons rattle off to the fields. The jolly face of the country sun lights up myriads of frost diamonds hung on the sparse spears of yellow grass. Along the roads wagons pass in the distance, noiselessly, silhouetted against the sky like toy vehicles, drawn by toy horses. Inside the farmhouse everything is in bustling confusion. The blinds of the spire room have been drawn up to let in • flood of bright winter sunshine. District school has closed for the holidays. The children are in the kitchen stoning raisins, helping pare apples, slyly stealing cake dough, and watching the sansage as it is ground out from the sausage mill in strings. “Ho, hoF the youngsters suddenly shout in chorus. “Yonder comes Tom Hawkins, riding up the lane on Die Sorrel,’ full tilt.” Tom dismounts by putting his arms

the afternoon the girls in the various homes lay out every bit of finery to be worn to the party. The boys are not forgotten by their sisters. Their coats and trousers, white satin ties, boiled shirts, axe all put out on the bed in easy reach. Aunt Maria shines the shoes until you can see yourself on their polished surfaces. The boys, in a home-made sleigh, are off for the girls, sometimes five or six miles away. The girls at the house wait for their beaux, who come likewise from the neighboring houses or from the little towns near by. “Zip, sip. ha, ha, hurrah,” and up comes a sled with a dozen young folks bound for the party. The sled is a long one, with a wagon box mounted on the cross-beams. Three or four wagons have been stripped of their spring seats to equip the sleigh. The bed of the box is filled with hay, which keeps everybody’s feet warm. Away the sled whirls, taking a short cut across the bottoms, running counter to rocks and logs under the snow, and almost spilling the whole party out. Out in the open road another sleigh turns in at the crossing ahead. This is the signal for a race. The horses know it, and give a bound that brings the two wagon boxes abreast of each other. The party iS in full swing by 8 o’clock, and supper is served by 10. Old Uncle Ben furnishes the music for “snap,” “Weevilly Wheat,” and all the other rollicking games. Unde Ben begins to “tune

up,” while everybody shoves his ch<!f back against the side of the wall to clear the center of the floor. “Twa-ang, scr-a-ape, tweedle, leedle, leedle, le-e,” goes the fiddle, while Uncle Ben screws his face into a thousand wrinkles. Sometimes, of late, the Hills boys hive furnished the music for the parties, much to the disgust of Uncle Ben. He declares that “wen dem boys gits hole o’ one o’ dem new tangle gityars an’ anodder one on ’em goes slap-e-ty bang on Miss Hawkins’ pianner, hit ’em jis’ nuff ter mek yo' har stun’ on en’. ’Tain no mo lak music dan heatin’ on er dish pan.” As 12 o’clock approaches everybody is alert to get everybody else’s Christmas gift. This ceremony being over, the party breaks up, the young folks race home, and big and little hang up their stockings in front of the fireplace.

NO FIDDLER LIKE HIM.