Theodore Winthrop

“ Jake Shamberlain’s Ball It grew dusk. Glimmering camp-fires marked the circle of the Mormon caravan. The wagons seemed each one, in the gloaming, a giant white nightcap of an ogress leaning over her coals. The world looked drowsy, and invited the pilgrims toward the Mecca of the new Thingamy to repose. They did not seem inclined to accept. The tramping and lowing cattle kept up a tumult like the noise of a far city. And presently another din!
As Brent and I approached the fort, forth issued Jake Shamberlain, with a drummer on this side and a fifer on that. ”

“ I cannot be entertained by that low comedy, with tragedy sitting beside our friends’ wagon.”
“The stars,” said Brent, bitterly, “are cold and cruel as destiny. There is heaven overhead, pretending to be calming and benignant, and giving no help, while I am thinking in agony what can be done to save from any touch of shame or deeper sorrow that noble daughter.”
“It is a fine night for a gallop,” I repeated.
“There they are. We must keep them out of the fort. Wade. If you love me, detain the old man in talk for half an hour.” ”

“ Time, Time! All hands round! Catch a gal and spin her! Well, that was jest as harnsome a kerdrille as ever I seed.”
And so on with another quadrille, minuet, and quadrille again. But the subsequent dances were not so orderly as the first. Filled with noise and romping, they frequently ended in wild disorder. The figures tangled themselves into a labyrinth, and the music, drowned by the tumult, ceased to be a clew of escape. Nor could Jake’s voice, half suffocated by the dust, be heard above the din, until, having hushed his orchestra, he had called “Halt!” a dozen times. ”