The trees waved full-foliaged branches above the circle of sawdust and dappled the sunny expanse with flickering shade, and as they swayed apart in the wind they gave evanescent glimpses of tiers on tiers of the faint blue mountains of the Great Smoky Range in the distance, seeming ethereal, luminous, seen from between the dark, steep, wooded slopes of the narrow watergap hard by, through which Headlong Creek plunged and roared. The principal musician, perched with his fellows on a hastily erected stand, was burly, red-faced, and of a jovial aspect. He had a brace of fiddlers, one on each side, but with his own violin under his double-chin he alone “called the figures” of the old-fashioned contradances. Now and again, with a wide, melodious, sonorous voice, he burst into a snatch of song: “Shanghai chicken he grew so tall, In a few days--few days, Cannot hear him crow at all-----” Sometimes he would intersperse jocund personal remarks in his Terpsichorean commands: “Gents, forward to the centre--back--swing: the lady ye love the best.” Then in alternation, “Ladies, forward to the centre--back----” and as the mountain damsels teetered in expectation of the usual supplement of this mandate he called out in apparent expostulation, “_Don't_ swing him, Miss--he don't wuth a turn.” Suddenly the tune changed and with great gusto he chanted forth: “When fust I did a-courtin' go, Says she 'Now, _don't_ be foolish, Joe,'” the _tempo rubato_ giving fresh impetus to the kaleidoscopic whirl of the dancers. The young men were of indomitable endurance and manifested a crude agility as they sprang about clumsily in time to the scraping of the fiddles, while their partners shuffled bouncingly or sidled mincingly according to their individual persuasion of the most apt expression of elegance. Considered from a critical point of view the dance was singularly devoid of grace--only one couple illustrating the exception to the rule. The youth it was who was obviously beautiful, of a type as old as the fabled Endymion.