In the afternoon, the day being mild and sunny, there was a dance in the bowery,--a great arbour made of poles and brush and wattling.

Here, where the ground had been trodden firm, the age and maturity as well as the youth and beauty of Israel gathered in such poor festal array as they had been able to save from their ravaged stores.
The Twelve Apostles led off in a double cotillion, to the moving strains of a violin and horn, the lively jingle of a string of sleigh-bells, and the genial snoring of a tambourine.

Then came dextrous displays in the dances of our forbears, who followed the fiddle to the Fox-chase Inn or Garden of Gray's Ferry.

There were French Fours, Copenhagen jigs, Virginia reels,--spirited figures blithely stepped.

And the grave-faced, square-jawed Elders seemed as eager as the unthinking youths and maidens to throw off for the moment the burden of their cares.
From midday until the April sun dipped below the sharp skyline of the Omaha hills, the modest revel endured.