" There's a many tunes I don't
make head or tail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird's
whistle. I suppose it's the name: there's a deal in the name of a
tune.'
But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently
broke with much spirit into 'Sir Roger de Coverley', at which there
was a sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices.
'Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means,' said the Squire,
rising. 'It's time to begin the dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and
we'll all follow you.'
So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and playing
vigorously, marched forward at the head of the gay procession into the
White Parlour, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous
tallow candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the
berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval
mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wainscot. A quaint
procession! Old Solomon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks,
seemed to be luring that decent company by the magic scream of his
fiddle- luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs
Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose perpendicular feather was on
a level with the Squire's shoulder- luring fair lasses complacently
conscious of very short waists and skirts blameless of front-folds-
burly fathers, in large variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the
most part shy and sheepish, in short nether garments and very long
coat-tails.
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