To which, till after whiffs profound, The other answered not; At last there came responsive sound: “Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gott!” Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest Beneath the chimney-gable, And courtesied, bustling at her best To spread the New Year’s table. She brought the pure and genial schnapps, That years before had come— In the “Nieuw Nederlandts,” perhaps— To cheer the settlers’ home; The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll Of pressed and crispy Spanish; Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, Nor long delayed to vanish. Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, And honors of the day, The trader mixed the Governor’s drink As evening sped away. That ancient room! I see it now: The carven nutwood dresser; The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouw Begrudged their rich possessor; The brace of high-backed leathern chairs, Brass-nailed at every seam; Six others, ranged in equal pairs; The bacon hung abeam; The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft; The hearty wooden fire; The picture, on the steaming delft, Of David and Goliah. I see the two old Dutchmen sit Like Magog and his mate, And hear them, when their pipes are lit, Discuss affairs of state: The clique that would their sway demean; The pestilent importation Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean And losel Yankee nation. But when the subtle juniper Assumed its sure command, They drank the buxom loves that were,— They drank the Motherland; They drank the famous Swedish wars, Stout Peter’s special glory, While Govert proudly showed the scars Of Indian contests gory. Erelong, the berry’s power awoke Some music in their brains, And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, Rang long-forgotten strains,— Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, Of phantom ships and battle; And Peter, with his leg of wood, Made floor and casement rattle. Then round and round the dresser pranced, The chairs began to wheel, And on the board the punch-bowl danced A Netherlandish reel; Till midnight o’er the farm-house spread Her New-Year’s skirts of sable, And, inch by inch, each puzzled head Dropt down upon the table. But still to Peter, as he dreamed, That table spread and turned; The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed To circle as it burned; The town into the vision grew From ending to beginning; Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, All widening and spinning. The cowpaths, leading to the docks, Grew broader, whirling past, And checkered into shining blocks,— A city fair and vast; Stores, churches, mansions, overspread The metamorphosed island, While not a beaver showed his head From Swamp to Kalchook highland.