A Kentucky Christmas

By George Ella Lyon

“A gigantic gift full of literary goodies . . . holiday stories poems, songs and essays, there should be something for anyone who opens this package.” —Kentucky Monthly
 
A celebration of holiday poetry, fiction, essays, recipes, and songs by more than sixty of the Bluegrass state’s finest writers. Gathered here are writings from some of the legendary voices of Kentucky—and the nation—as well as original Christmas stories and poetry from some of the state’s emerging talents. Among the contributors to this handsome collection are Kentucky’s visionaries, storytellers, historians, singers, cooks, children’s authors, and poets, including all five Kentucky Poet Laureates. A delight for anyone interested in Kentucky literature, history, or traditions, A Kentucky Christmas promises to be a wonderful holiday gift, a treasured family keepsake, and a necessary addition for libraries and for personal collections.
 
“This book could accurately be called ‘A Kentucky Christmas Tree,’ since it is a structure with various good-sized branches, all hung or draped with bits of holiday cheer.”—Appalachian Center Newsletter
“Celebrates Kentucky traditions from the first Christmas on the Falls of the Ohio to settlement days along the Cumberland to Appalachian country store windows on Christmas Eve.”—Floyd County Times
 
“This cornucopia of a book will appeal to all who count the season as the best time of the year.”—Southern Living
 
“This book will become a holiday classic.”—Suite101.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9780813141268

Book preview

OLD CHRISTMAS

Louisville’s First Christmas

An Imaginative Recreation

LOOSELY SUGGESTED BY A PAPER READ BY COL. REUBEN T. DURRETT BEFORE THE FILSON CLUB, NOW THE FILSON HISTORICAL SOCIETY, FEBRUARY 3, 1902.

WADE HALL

For two hundred years and more, Christmas in Louisville has been a glad and joyous time, a season when old and young alike have celebrated the birth of the Christ Child. These celebrations have been colorful and varied because the people who have lived in Louisville have come from many countries—each with its own special ways of marking the season—English, Irish, Germans, Scots, Greeks, Lebanese, Italians, French, Africans, and many others.

From all these sources, we get the traditions that we now take into the twenty-first century, from the lighted Christmas tree, sparkling with icicles and brightly colored balls, to the Christmas dinner, with its groaning board of roasted turkey and chicken and stuffing, oyster dressing, baked country ham, barbecue, cranberry salad, sweet potato pies, apple punch, and mouthwatering fruit cakes.

Such displays of opulence and plenty would have greatly surprised our founding fathers and mothers, who, in December of 1778, were barely surviving in the little settlement that would become Louisville. Now, in our imaginations let’s return to that first Christmas in Louisville. There were no cars or buses or trains or airplanes or televisions or radios or movies or VCRs or electric lights or telephones. There was no Internet. Of course, there weren’t very many people here either, only about sixty in the entire city. In fact, it wasn’t really a city. It was still a makeshift fort that George Rogers Clark and his soldiers had built on Corn Island in the middle of the Ohio River the previous spring.

Then Colonel Clark and his men had left to go to the Illinois country to what are now the states of Illinois and Indiana to fight the British and the Indians and protect the fledgling American nation from enemy attacks in the West. After the success of his military campaigns, Clark sent word back that it was safe for the people here to build a permanent fort on the southern shore of the river. And so they did. They had always known that the island was too small to support a permanent settlement. All summer long they had worked hard, clearing land and raising corn and other food to eat and store against the winter months, hunting in the thick woods nearby, and watching out for Indians who might not like strangers settling on their hunting grounds.

Therefore, when the message came from Clark to build a fort on the shore opposite Corn Island—it was near where Twelfth Street is now—the men got busy, cutting down huge trees that hugged the shores of the river, dragging them to the clearing they had prepared, and shaping them into log cabins that were arranged in rows to form a rectangle with an open court in the middle. It was very hard work because the men and boys had to do everything by hand with only simple tools like axes, mauls, and wedges to lighten their labor. But no one complained.

Everyone was eager to leave the island and the constant roar the river made as it cascaded over the rocky rapids. They also knew that every spring heavy rains up the river could flood the island and destroy their cabins and vegetable patches—even the animal skins that were drying on every cabin wall. Morever, the young people were tired of being cooped up and wanted more room for their wilderness games and adventures. After all, this was the Far West, and nobody liked being hemmed in on a small island.

So everyone worked hard, from first light until after dark, into the late summer and fall. The first killing frost found them still putting logs into place, with a roaring fire in the courtyard to warm their freezing hands and feet. Under the able leadership of master carpenter Richard Chenoweth, the fort was taking shape and would surely be ready for occupancy before the first deep freeze made outside work impossible. A rainbow of leaves soon covered the ground, and the sons and daughters of the Tuells, the Pattens, the Hunters, and the Reagers played among them—when they could be spared from more important work by the adults.

After the first heavy snow fell in early November, Chenoweth called a settlement meeting. My dear friends, he said, it does not appear that we will have the fort finished by Christmas. Some of the families will have to remain on the island throughout the winter. I am sorry that we could not all be together, but next year we will be. John McManus spoke up, It was not your fault, Richard. We have all worked like Trojans. We are planting a new city in the wilderness, and that cannot be done overnight. We could not have had a better leader than you. Because of you, we are all prepared for the winter, whether we stay on the island or move to this new fort. I speak for my wife Mary and my three sons, John, George, and James, when I say, ‘We will volunteer to stay on the island for the winter.’

Soon, so many men were volunteering to keep their families on Corn Island that Chenoweth called a halt. You are all good men and women and children, he said. I have no fear that we will all help each other through the lean times ahead, and come next spring, we will finish our new fort and be together again. Of such people as you, we will build a strong and beautiful city on this beautiful river. May God bless us all. It was soon decided which cabins would be completed and which families would move onto the shore where the new city was being planted.

The people returned to their labors, some to finishing cabins in the new fort, others to hunting and salting down meat for the winter. The days got shorter and the winds colder. There was now a heavy frost every morning, and the ponds and marshes all around the new fort began to freeze. By the first week in December, several snows had fallen and melted. Then a snow storm arrived that covered the ground and remained. Maybe there will be a blanket of snow for Christmas, young Ann Tuell said eagerly one day. As December deepened and the weather got colder, the birds and the animals in the woods seemed to disappear, and people stayed inside more by the fireplaces, the women cooking and mending, spinning and weaving, the men still bringing in fresh meat from the snow-filled woods, the children watching and practicing the skills of their parents.

Christmas week began on Sunday, December 19, under a leaden sky. It was warm and nasty, the snow melting into dirty foot tracks and animal ruts. The weekly meeting was held in the Chenoweth cabin, with a volunteer lay reader conducting the service of prayers and scripture. He read: O Lord, raise up, we pray thee, thy power, and come among us. And another read: Rejoice in the Lord always; and again, I say, Rejoice. Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. And another read: John answered them, saying, I baptize with water; but there standeth one among you, whom ye know not; he it is, who coming after me, is preferred before me, whose shoe’s latchet I am not worthy to unloose. And finally one read: The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth for evermore. And they all said, Amen, Amen, and left the place to prepare for Christmas.

As the people thought of the approaching holiday, they remembered the ways they had celebrated Christmas back in Virginia and Pennsylvania and farther back, in England and Scotland and Ireland. Everyone had an opinion about what the tiny colony should do on Christmas day, and they agreed that there should be a party with lots of food that would christen their new quarters. They also agreed that, since Richard Chenoweth had been the foreman in the building of the new fort, he should be master of the revels. I’m not much when it comes to parties and such, he said, but we’ve all worked hard and deserve a reward of good food and entertainment. We need a time out from our labors. Yes, I’ll do what I can, and I know we can count on the ladies for their help. Everyone agreed to pitch in, especially the young people, who had worked hard alongside their parents all spring and summer and fall and were eager now to have some fun.

Food has always been a sign of prosperity and success. Having plenty of food makes people feel good about themselves and their enterprises. So the older people suggested a big dinner, a feast to celebrate the almost seven months they had been at the Falls of the Ohio. That’s what everyone was calling the little Ohio River settlement at the rapids. It wasn’t until almost two years later that it was named Louisville to honor the French King Louis XVI, who was helping Americans in their war for independence.

Life was hard for everyone in the New World, even in the older colonies back east in Virginia, New York, and Massachusetts; but it was especially difficult and dangerous for the new Americans trying to survive and carve out new settlements on the Western frontier in the Kentucky wilderness. Food supplies frequently ran low, especially in the winter, and there was much sickness and death. But all in all, the people at the Falls were thankful for what they had achieved, and they were hopeful for what the future would bring. They’d been encouraged by the good news from Colonel Clark and his men in the Northwest—from Kaskaskia and Vincennes—and now they wanted to celebrate all their good fortune with a grand feast on the holy day of Christmas.

Although some of the animals had gone into hibernation and were not seen as often as during the warm months, the woods were still teeming with game—deer and bears and rabbits and opossums, or ‘possums, as everyone called them. The men were all good marksmen—and the boys too—so there’d be no problem in providing enough food for the feast. That part of the celebration was easily taken care of.

The younger people wanted something more. They wanted a big dance, a Christmas ball. They’d had no time or place since they arrived at the Falls back in May to have a really big dance, and they were eager to put on their party clothes and dancing shoes. Well, at least the girls were. . . . Now, they had a large room in the new fort that could accommodate a dozen or more dancers at one time. What’s more, the room had a packed dirt floor that would be hard enough for dancing. The more they thought about it, even the older people thought a dance would be a good idea! A dance would celebrate not only the birth of Jesus but the birth of a new town and a new nation. It appealed to everyone’s sense of piety and patriotism.

There was only one problem, one which seemed insurmountable. They had no musician. And in those days before recorded music, without a live musician there could be no music. Well, said Sarah Reager, why didn’t someone think of including a fiddler on this expedition? We certainly can’t have a dance without music. Another girl sighed, And there’s no one here who can make music for us. Maybe by next Christmas we’ll have someone.

Fortunately, they were wrong. There was one man in the settlement who could play the fiddle. He was the most unlikely one of all. That man was Cato Watts, a servant belonging to John Donne, who was on duty with Colonel Clark in Kaskaskia. John, who had left his wife, Martha, and son, John, behind at the Falls, shouted, Cato! Cato can play the fiddle. Why, I heard him playing a reel the other day just before dark. He was sitting off by himself under a sycamore tree. Let’s go get Cato!

Cato was found sitting under his favorite tree, but he wasn’t playing his fiddle. Cato! said John, get your fiddle and show everybody how you can play. What Cato said, however, dashed the young people’s newfound joy to the ground. Oh, yes sir, he said, hanging his head, I would enjoy playing my fiddle for you, but all my strings are broke but one. I can’t play with just one string. I tried to use a hair from a horse’s tail, but I only got a bad screech when I scraped my bow over that piece of hair. It sounded like e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ech! Then I tried to use a little old muscle from a deer’s leg, but all I got was a hoarse sound like a old hoot owl makes when he’s dying—o-o-o-o-okk-okkk-ok-k-k-k. Cato looked down, as if searching for lost fiddle strings, then looked up sadly, and said, Young folks, I sure would like to make some music for you, but I can’t make dancing music come out of just one string.

By that time, everybody was looking sad—even the old people—because it wouldn’t be a fit celebration without a ball. Nevertheless, the people decided to make do with what they had. They could still have a big dinner and play games and tell stories. But even as they went about planning for the big event and the holiday spirit began to move them, they longed for the music that would make their first Christmas in Kentucky perfect.

Early on Christmas Eve, several of the men and boys went outside the new fort into the woods to hunt. They went as far as they dared go because a scout from the fort had reported Indian signs a few days before. It was probably no cause for alarm—more than likely a Shawnee hunting party on its way home north of the river after an expedition in the Kentucky woods. Just the same, the settlers knew it didn’t pay to take chances. Lady Luck was with them and before noon they were safely back in the fort with birds and animals of all descriptions. The men set about skinning the furry animals; with the help of several large pots of boiling water, the women picked the birds clean of their feathers. Soon the meat was ready for boiling and roasting in preparation for the next day’s feast.

Suddenly, a scout near the river spied a small boat coming toward the shore and ran into the fort shouting, We’ve got visitors! We’ve got visitors! The people gathered excitedly at the fort gate to greet their visitors with a mixture of welcome and fear. They were always hungry for news of the war brought by travelers, but they were also cautious because the strangers could be renegade soldiers or Indians. These visitors, however, soon made themselves known as traders on their way from Fort Pitt, which we now call Pittsburgh, to Kaskaskia, which Colonel Rogers had just freed from British control.

Our boat has a leak in it, one of the traders said, and we’d like to stop here while we repair it—if you will allow us. James Patton, one of the leaders at the fort, greeted the newcomers, Welcome to the Falls of the Ohio, he said. We’d be pleased to have you stop with us. We’ll help you fix your boat. Out here in this wilderness, people have to help each other. You’re welcome to stop a spell with us and stay as long as you want. We don’t have much, but we’ll put you up and share what we have. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and we’d be mighty pleased if you’d join us for a big feast we’re preparing. You can tell us all the news from back home. Needless to say, the traders were glad to stop over, especially after they saw all the preparations being made for the Christmas celebration and began to smell the aroma of the meat cooking.

One of the guests was a Frenchman named Jean Nikel, who had recently arrived in America to seek adventure and good fortune. He was eager to see the American West and had hitched a ride with the river traders now arriving at the Falls. And as luck would have it, he was a violin player. The good luck kept getting better and better. Not only did he have his violin with him but he also had brought extra violin strings. Of course, none of the settlers would know this until the next day. They did not know that one of these strangers who was sharing their hospitality was a violinist with a violin and, mirabile dictu, extra strings.

As the settlers and their guests bedded down for the night, no one knew about the violinist and the strings—no one except one person. Cato! Maybe it was some sixth sense that binds musicians—black and white, young and old, American and Frencli—into a kind of musical friendship. Perhaps he saw the violin while helping the strangers unload their boat for repair. Whatever it was, Cato soon discovered that Monsieur Nikel had a violin and several extra strings; just before dark, when everyone else was inside the fort, he approached the Frenchman. Mr. Frenchman, Cato said in a low voice that no one else could hear, I’ll trade you three ’coon skins for three strings for my fiddle. Cato looked around to see if anyone was looking at him suspiciously; then he continued, And I’ll give you another ’coon skin if you keep our business between us until tomorrow. The Frenchman didn’t quite understand what Cato was up to, but he readily agreed to the transaction because raccoon skins were a valuable commodity in those days. Why, back East he could trade Cato’s skins for more than a dozen fiddle strings.

What neither Monsieur Nikel or anyone else knew was that Cato had a plan to surprise everyone on Christmas Day. He would secretly install the new strings on his old fiddle, and then the next day, when dinner was over and everyone was thinking about how fine it would be to have a dance, Cato would whip out his fiddle and start playing away. Not only would Cato be everybody’s hero, but his clever act to save the Christmas ball might even lead Mr. Donne to do his own act of kindness: bring Cato’s wife and children from Virginia to be with him in Kentucky, which Donne had promised when he separated Cato from his family. What a Christmas gift that would be for everyone! That evening, as the fire in the Donne cabin fireplace was burning low and after everyone else was sleeping, Cato took his fiddle and installed the new strings, then hid it in a corner to wait the next day, when his Christmas gift would doubtless make him the hero of the hour. In his trade with Monsieur Nikel, Cato had used up all the raccoon skins he had saved, but he was sure it was a transaction made in heaven. What’s more, the woods were still full of live raccoons that could be his for the taking.

The tired settlers drifted off to sleep on Christmas Eve with mixed anticipation of the next day’s celebration—excited about the grand feast but sad, too, that there would be no dancing because Cato’s fiddle was broken. Or so everyone thought—everyone but the wily musician himself.

Friday, December 25, 1778, dawned with a bright sun and cold, crisp air. A shining blanket of snow had been spread during the night, and the raw, unfinished fort looked like an enchanted new world. Soon the pots were boiling a meat and vegetable stew, which someone would many years later name burgoo, and the open fireplaces and ovens were baking the meats and breads and pastries for the big dinner. At the northeast corner of the fort, next to the Chenoweth cabin, a large room double the size of any other room in the settlement had been constructed. In this banquet room forked limbs were driven into the dirt floor and poles were placed through the forks, and on the poles large boards were laid to make a giant dinner table—one big enough to accommodate all the settlers at the Falls as well as their visitors. In the absence of a Christmas tree, for that custom had not yet come to the New World from Germany, the women and girls decorated the cabin doorways with wreaths and garlands of holly and cedar gathered from the nearby woods. A large bouquet of holly with its bright red berries occupied the center of the huge table.

By midafternoon the table was ready to receive the feast, and the men and boys began bringing in the heavy pots of roasted meats and wooden bowls of hominy and dried fruits and nuts—all the bounty from field and woods. Soon their neighbors from Corn Island began arriving with their baskets of food. No one seemed to mind the lack of such fineries as a linen cloth to spread on the table. The meats and vegetables and breads were served on wooden trays, bowls, and platters. There were a few pewter spoons and horn-handled knives and tin cups on the table, and most families brought their own wooden eating ware. Amidst this cornucopia of plenty, no one noticed the absence of fine silver or china. When the table was complete and these first Louisvillians beheld the sumptuous food spread out before them, their eyes could hardly take it all in. And these are the products of our labor, they said silently to themselves. God has truly blessed us.

Indeed. There were meats galore—venison and bear and rabbit and turkey and raccoon—and, yes, even buffalo steaks. And these meats were baked and fried and boiled to perfection and seasoned just right with wild herbs and the precious salt the men had rendered in the early fall from the nearby salt springs. The corn harvested in late summer on the island was made into many delicious forms—corn pone, hoecake, batter cake, boiled hominy, and fried hominy. There were milk and butter and goat cheese—all in all, a variety to impress diners at any fancy eatery in Paris. No one could mistake the main course—four fat ’possums dressed and baked whole. They hung by their tails from a long stick of wood suspended from a rafter over the far end of the table.

Squire Chenoweth signaled for everyone—including the visitors and Cato—to draw near to the table of plenty. When everyone was quiet and every head was bowed, he prayed, Oh, Lord, how gracious are Thy mercies to us. We thank Thee for bringing us over the perils of the river, for delivering us from the dangers of disease and want and from those who would harm us, and now for placing before us this table heavy with Thy goodness, for which we are truly not worthy. May this food nourish us and make us stronger servants in Thy service. Amen. Food was already disappearing from the table as the squire’s final word was still echoing around the crowded room. With wooden plates loaded to overflowing, the people gathered in small groups inside the room and outside on crudely improvised seats and tables from which the new snow had been dusted. Talk and laughter drifted up to the clear skies, and the people returned time and again to the table. A mother was heard to warn her children about the sin of gluttony, but for most of these first Louisvillians, that sin had surely been suspended for Christmas. One veteran of the Pennsylvania frontier came nearer to speaking the truth: There are no fat people, he said, in the Western wilds.

As the sun dropped into the tall trees just west of the fort and the shadows lengthened, the young people remembered with a sigh that they would have no dance. One of the Donne boys who had developed a serious liking for Ann Tuell in the past several months now sat on one of the dinner benches crestfallen. As young Donne cast a longing glance over toward Miss Tuell, he heard one of the visitors say, Mademoiselle Tuell, I dropped my violin as we were unloading our boat last night, and I thought I had broken it. But I did not. She looked up, excitedly, Mr. Nikel, you thought you had broken your what? He said, Ah, Mademoiselle, mon violin—you call eet, violin. At this, Ann Tuell gave out a short of joy. Yippee, she said, as demurely as she could. And where is your violin now? He said, Oh, I have her here avec moi on zee boat. Then Miss Tuell shouted as loud as a boy, Yippee, we’ll have our dance after all.

Monsieur tried to protest that he wasn’t prepared, but all the girls rushed up and hugged and kissed him, pleading, Please, please. Just a few tunes. We haven’t danced any since we left home back East. Finally, he yielded, All right, I will play a leetle for you, and left to retrieve his violin at the boat, which had already been repaired and made river-ready.

While the French musician was gone, the great table was taken down and the room cleared for the dance. The people who were too young or too old to dance seated themselves on benches and stools around the walls of the large room. Everybody was waiting impatiently for the music to begin. The men were sporting their buckskin hunting shirts, breeches, and moccasins, the women their best linsey gowns and fancy shoes. Everyone was happy and thrilled with great expectations—everyone, that is, except Cato.

Poor Cato! He sat in his corner alone, sad and upset at what was happening. The Frenchman was going to be the hero of the day. Cato was ready to play his fiddle with its new strings, but now it seemed that he had spent all his coonskins for nothing. He sat with his head bent down, mourning the loss of his dreams, as everyone else eagerly awaited the return of the French musician.

Loud clapping and yelling greeted Monsieur Nikel as he walked in, cradling his violin in his arms, and announced, I’m sorry I don’t know any of zee Americaine dances, but I know all zee French ones. I’ll teach zem to you. The girls squealed with delight, of course, because they knew the French dances were always the most fashionable. Even the boys wanted to learn them—but mainly because the girls wanted to.

As the French maestro tuned up his violin and started to play the first dance, it became all too apparent that French dances might not be well suited to the Kentucky wilderness. After his somewhat puzzling musical introduction, the Frenchman gave the young people instructions for a dance called the branle. Now young ladies and gentlemen, he directed, please place yourself in a circle. Now join your hands and jump up like zees, as he demonstrated how he wanted them to leap up. Assuring them that they could easily master such a simple dance, the maestro glided over to one side of the room and began to play.

From the first note, it was a disaster. The novice dancers could not keep in time with the music, and furthermore, they couldn’t understand his repeated instructions in broken English. Two of the boys started laughing and played leapfrog over one another—then three and four and five joined in, and finally the girls got swept up and began leapfrogging over each other—to the great horror of their parents. Everybody started laughing and pointing, the dancers and most of the spectators, even the small children. Cato looked up and smiled at the confusion. Finally, the Frenchman reached the limit of his disgust with his rustic dancers, and shouted, Zat is not zee way it goes. Stop. Stop. It is wrong. Zat is not zee way it goes. After a while, he managed to bring some order out of the pandemonium. Or perhaps it was exhaustion that stopped the dancers, who were sprawled about all over the hard dirt floor, laughing at each other, and imitating the Frenchman’s accent, Zat is not zee way it goes.

Cato was still smiling to himself in the corner, waiting for his cue. But Monsieur Nikel was not quite ready to give up. I will teach you how to do a minuet, he said. Anybody can do a minuet. Patiently, he showed his class how to make a long and graceful bow, how to balance, and then how to glide forward. As the instructor pranced about the floor, there were muffled outbursts of laughter from throughout the room. Satisfied, however, that even these simple frontiersmen could do a simple minuet, he returned to his position at the side of the room, took up his violin, and started to play a minuet. But this was not his day to bring French culture to the American back country. The dancers were just as confused with the minuet as they were with the branle. They got all their dips and glides and hops mixed up. Instead of bowing gracefully and slowly, they bobbed their heads up and down, like geese dodging a shower of stones. Non! he shouted in desperation, Zat is not right, his face red with frustration and disgust. Nevertheless, he resolved to try one more time.

Surely, the third dance in his repertoire, the pavane, in which the dancers strutted around like peacocks, would be the charm. Zis dance is zee rage in la France, he said by way of encouragement. All zee ladies and gentlemen in la France are dancing it. Again, he showed his students the basic movements—this time how to strut like peacocks, French ones, presumably—and again he took his place, and again he began to play. It is a sad tale to tell, but this time there was more confusion on the floor than the other two times put together. The boys strutted by the girls, and the girls became hysterical with laughter until they could hardly breathe. Then the girls strutted by the boys holding their skirts out, as they had been instructed, and the boys began mocking the screaming cry of the peacock. By this time, everyone in the room was laughing so hard that no one could see the action through their tears.

Everyone was laughing, that is, except the poor Frenchman. By now Monsieur Nikel was so angry and frustrated that he began speaking only in French, which, of course, no one could understand. Attention! Messieurs et Mesdemoiselles! Que faites vous? Que faites vous?—and he rambled on and on in a language that might as well have been Chinese or Swahili. Finally, he fell against the wall exhausted, shaking in despair with his silent violin locked under his arm.

Just at this point, Cato was seen getting up slowly and deliberately from his seat in the corner and pulling his fiddle with its newly installed strings from its hiding place underneath his stool. Grinning from ear to ear, he walked over to the vanquished Frenchman and said clearly, Mr. Nikel, do you mind if I play a little something on my fiddle while you rest? Cato interpreted the stranger’s weak Qui to mean yes, and launched quickly into an old Virginia reel, which everyone recognized immediately. In the twinkling of an eye, the men arranged themselves on one side of the room and the women on the other, and the dance began, with the couples cutting all sorts of capers and jigs and hoedowns and shuffles and what-have-you. Indeed, here was a dance the Kentuckians understood. They knew how to do it, and they did it enthusiastically and with flair.

The dancing kept on through the late afternoon and into the evening and night. Outside a bright moon lighted the snow-filled landscape. Inside, candles were brought out and the walls were filled with dancing shadows. The small children went to sleep in rows along the wall. The old people nodded their approval from the benches. The younger dancers kept on and on, turning and wheeling about, laughing and enjoying themselves, resting, then going back to start over. It seemed that the dancers would never let the dance end. But finally, it did, and Cato stopped his fiddle, and everyone found a place to rest, tired and happy.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Nikel had slipped out of the room while the dancing was in full blast and made his way down to the boat, which was waiting at the edge of the star-filled river. As soon as daylight came the morning after Christmas, the little boat was seen by an early riser being pushed away from shore. Inside were the two traders, who had managed to do a considerable amount of business with the American settlers, and one slightly damaged French dance instructor. The boat with its cargo soon went safely over the rapids and headed toward the Illinois country to the west.

When the Louisvillians awakened the day after Christmas, they found their guests all gone. But that was all right. After all, the little boat had brought exactly what they needed to have a perfect celebration of Christmas. Furthermore, the Louisville pioneers had found a treasure in their midst. When they wanted to have another big celebration, they didn’t have to send all the way to France. Cato Watts was always available to give them what they wanted. Well into the new year, everyone was talking about how he had bested the Frenchman with his fiddle and given them the best Christmas surprise they would ever have. And Cato’s fame spread all over the Western country. Soon a Christmas would come when Cato’s playing had a special joy to it, as he looked out over the whirling dancers and looked back to the wife and children at his side.

FROM Social Life and Diversions, FLOWERING OF THE CUMBERLAND

HARRIETTE SIMPSON ARNOW

New situations called for new words. . . .

The almost unique situation in regard to land produced a vocabulary strange to most visiting Englishmen—squatter, land office, entry taker. The land itself, though without any natural features unknown in Europe, gave rise to a vocabulary peculiarly American, and many were the English visitors who explained and commented upon such terms as river bottom, dividing ridge, sidling pass, sinkhole, and bluff. Even when the old term was