"Soldiers marching up the street,
They keep the time;
They look sublime!
Hear them play Die Wacht am Rhein!
They call them Schneider's Band.
Tra la la la, la!"
The length of Main Street and all the Square resounded with the rattle of
vehicles of every kind. Since earliest dawn they had been pouring into the
village, a long procession on every country road. There were great red and
blue farm wagons, drawn by splendid Clydesdales; the elders of the family
on the front seat and on boards laid from side to side in front, or on
chairs placed close behind, while, in the deep beds back of these,
children tumbled in the straw, or peeped over the sides, rosy-cheeked and
laughing, eyes alight with blissful anticipations. There were more
pretentious two-seated cut-unders and stout buckboards, loaded down with
merrymakers, four on a seat meant for two; there were rattle-trap phaetons
and comfortable carry-alls drawn by steady spans; and, now and then, mule
teams bringing happy negroes, ready to squander all on the first Georgia
watermelons and cider. Every vehicle contained heaping baskets of good
things to eat (the previous night had been a woeful Bartholomew for Carlow
chickens) and underneath, where the dogs paced faithfully, swung buckets
and fodder for the horses, while colts innumerable trotted dose to the
maternal flanks, viewing the world with their big, new eyes in frisky
surprise.
Here and there the trim side-bar buggy of some prosperous farmer's son,
escorting his sweetheart, flashed along the road, the young mare stepping
out in pride of blood to pass the line of wagons, the youth who held the
reins, resplendent in Sunday best and even better, his scorched brown face
glowing with a fine belief in the superiority of both his steed and his
lady; the latter beaming out upon life and rejoicing in the light-blue
ribbons on her hat, the light-blue ribbon around her waist, the light-
blue, silk half-mittens on her hands, and the beautiful red coral necklace
about her neck and the red coral buttons that fastened her gown in the
back.
The air was full of exhilaration; everybody was laughing and shouting and
calling greetings; for Carlow County was turning out, and from far and
near the country people came; nay, from over the county line, clouds of
dust rising from every thoroughfare and highway, and sweeping into town to
herald their coming.
Dibb Zane, the "sprinkling contractor," had been at work with the town
water-cart since the morning stars were bright, but he might as well have
watered the streets with his tears, which, indeed, when the farmers began
to come in, bringing their cyclones of dust, he drew nigh unto, after a
spell of profanity as futile as his cart.