A Quilting Party
Year after year passed, and still the war dragged on. The battles
of Trenton and Princeton had revived the drooping hopes of the
patriots, and the capture of Burgoyne had gained for them the powerful
assistance of France. Still it was an exhausting struggle. Thousands
of men were called away from their homes and occupations, many of them
never to return; labor was interrupted, the credit of the nation
depressed, and the prospects of a successful issue seemed as remote as
ever. The courage of the patriots, however, did not fail them,
and from the very prolongation of the war rose a forlorn hope that the
British cabinet would at length be convinced of the futility of their
endeavor to conquer a people so determined, and ultimately concede
their independence.
It was a bright day in March, 1780. Though spring
according to the calendar, it was still winter in fact. Snow yet
covered the ground, the buds showed no signs of awakening life, and
the keen winds, blowing as only March winds can, kept the world still
prisoner under the reign of the Frost King.
On the evening of that day, Judd's Meadow was enlivened with one of
those festive occasions characteristic of the times one hundred years
ago – a quilting. A young couple of the neighborhood was soon
to be
married, in anticipation of which the bride expectant invited her
friends to assist her in completing that most indispensable article
for housekeeping, a bed-quilt.
Marvelous achievements of industry and skill were those ancient
specimens of patchwork. By some inexplicable rule of computation their
value seems to have been estimated in exact proportion to the number
of pieces of which they were composed. The gathering of these had
been the work of years. They consisted largely of bits of the
materials from which the dresses of friends and relatives, near and
remote, had been made. Such a piece, you would be assured, was of
sister Sally's wedding gown, such another was from cousin Hannah's.
That chintz flower was from the dress of the minister's wife, that
she wore on the very
day of the ordination. This scrap was
from the wardrobe of Lieutenant Lewis's second wife, who was the rich
widow Hopkins, you know. Here was a bit from Mrs. Dr. Bird's wedding
gown, which she first pieced into a cradle-quilt for her eldest baby,
etc. Of course fragments of bridal robes and baby dresses were most
precious of all. The fitting and sewing of these had been long going
on, perhaps even from childhood; and now, as the eventful day, so
full of hope and promise, draws nigh, the piecing is completed, and
the final process of quilting is to be performed.
The invitation had been given on the previous Sunday, and on this
blustering Tuesday afternoon a merry group of girls are assembled
around the quilt-frames. in the best room. A blazing fire in the
wide, old fireplace roars, and sparkles, and snaps, as if to do its
utmost in adding warmth and cheer to the occasion. Fingers and
tongues move with equal speed: quaint figures, in circles, and
crescents, and stars and triangles, grow under the needlework, and by
the time the daylight fails, the task is completed, the quilt cut from
its frame, the room tidied of its disorder, and all is ready to
welcome the guests of the evening.
I know not how it was that this piece of purely feminine industry
could never be wholly finished without the aid of the young men. But
such was the fact; and
though these did not participate in
the actual labor, yet it is unquestionably true that the expectation
of their presence led to the production of many more quilts than would
otherwise have been made. The evening was devoted to merry-making.
Not infrequently a fiddler was engaged to officiate; but he was not
always to be had, and indeed his presence was not, in the best
families, quite approved. There were plenty of plays, however, to
supply the lack. There was button, button, and roll the
trencher, and marching to Quebec, and oats,
peas, beans, and the cushion dance, and blind man's
buff, and not least, if last, running 'round the
chimney, for which the structure of the houses in those days
afforded splendid facilities. And then, at a seemly hour, rarely
later than midnight, the party broke up, and the delicious after-play
of going home with the girls, followed; in regard to which we
have this singular fact to record, that no matter how long or rough
the road, or dark the night, no one either thus attendant or attended
was ever known to complain of either.
At the quilting to which we have referred, the young people of the
Judd, Williams, Hotchkiss, and other families in the town, were
present; and on this occasion Chauncey Judd, for the first time in his
life, ventured to offer himself for escort duty to a young
lady on her way home. Her name was Ditha Webb, and she
lived about
half a mile west from Mr. Judd's, on the old road leading to
Gunntown. Her father was a day laborer, working for the most part for
Mr. Jobamah Gunn, the rich tory farmer near by. She was a sprightly
girl, beaming with good nature, and something of a favorite among the
young folks. Her mother was frequently employed by the neighboring
families to assist them on special occasions, and in this capacity, as
tailor or seamstress, she had worked for Mrs. Judd in cutting and
making garments for her numerous household. Ditha was quite intimate
with the girls of the family, and often found time of an afternoon to
ramble with Anna or Ruth for berries and flowers in the fields.
Chauncey was now in his sixteenth year, tall, slender, with
light-blue eyes and fair, brown hair. Naturally he had a poetic
temperament, though be knew little of what poetry was. He felt the
beauty of the landscape as it lay stretched out before him; of the
hills and valleys, and the blue arch of heaven above; of the green
foliage of summer, and the ermined mantle and hoarse voices of the
winter. Especially did he feel the attractions of a fair face and a
winning smile, though his own timidity made him repel with ingenuous
blushes any intimation from his ruder companions of such a weakness as
this.
Therefore it was with a beating heart that he made up
his mind to offer his services that night as an escort to Ditha. He
heard her voice in merry laughter from the room whither the girls had
gone to don their hoods and cloaks, and when, with forced courage, he
met her at the door when she came out, and asked, May I have the
pleasure of seeing you home, Ditha? and received her prompt
reply, Thank you, Chauncey, at the same time putting her
little mittened hand within his arm, he felt that he was a lucky
fellow, and that Ditha was as good as she was pretty.
They reached her home, as Chauncey thought, in an incredibly short
time, and as the hour did not seem late, he accepted her invitation to
go in. Mr. and Mrs. Webb had retired for the night, but the fire
still smoldered on the hearth, and being replenished with the wood
laid in readiness for the morning, it soon filled the room with its
ruddy glow. Had it been a regular Sabbath evening visit, after the
most approved mode of courtship, she would have made a fire in the
best room; but as be only designed to remain a few minutes, that was
dispensed with, and the kitchen where the family for the most part
lived answered in its stead.
But he stayed longer than he had expected. What
were
the topics of conversation which beguiled those midnight hour we
cannot affirm; we can only guess. Both were of an age when the young
buds of the sweetest of all passions were beginning to swell in their
bosoms, as would the germs of life in the vegetable world a few weeks
later. It was this which gave its charm to the lateness, and made him
forget both himself and the hour. True, there was no clock to tell him
the lateness of the hour, nor had he a watch, for these were luxuries
possessed only by the rich; but the full moon, already past the
meridian, should have sufficiently supplied their place.
It must have been nearly or quite three o'clock before Chauncey
rose to depart. Ditha took the candle and guided him to the back door,
the only one used in the farmers' houses of the country during the
winter. The good nights were spoken, and the young man started down
the road homeward. With a bounding step he sped along the snowy path.
Never did the world look so beautiful; never was his heart so
light.
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