I chopped my own wood. I killed quails and squirrels, and
roasted them. I tried my hand at making cornbread. And I awoke in the
delicious mornings, exuberant and happy. Zoe had not come to me yet,
for she was staying on at Mrs. Spurgeon's until Sarah was married. And
at last the wedding was celebrated.
I shall never forget that night. It was unlike anything of which I had
ever heard. The town minister performed the ceremony. Mr. and Mrs.
Sturtevant were present. Douglas had been invited; but whether he failed
to get the message, or whether his new duties of teaching at Winchester
prevented him from coming I do not know. We missed him greatly. An
emergency arose in which his courage and gift of speech might have been
of use. I can imagine how he would have handled the crowd that assembled
outside while the wedding was in progress. In short, we were treated to
a shivaree, or _charivari_.
No sooner had the clergyman pronounced the final words than the most
unearthly noise broke loose right at the door. There was the sound of
tin pans, kettles, horns, drums; and this pandemonium was punctuated by
the firing of shots and the throwing of stones at the door and gravel
upon the window panes. Sarah, already flushed from excitement, took on
an expression of alarm. I thought that we had been attacked by a band of
Indians bent upon massacre.
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