Part 4

Then out from the shore came the same dinky “John” That the trusting old fiddler had rode away on, And strange though it seemed, there was Dan in the boat That had weathered the storms and was still there afloat. Then the cheers of the dancers rang out to the shore, And ev’ry eye swam with the tears that it bore. The “Oracle” suddenly came to life, too, As often ’tis found where there’s hope people do; He shouted and waved with the wildest delight, When the recognized forms of his friends came in sight.

He cried, “Oh, we’ve all had a lark of a time! We’ve been up to Twilley’s to dance to my rhyme, And water-bound there since we left the old town, We have danced day and night, and the most the way down; We grew tired of the place, and we thought we’d come home. All the dancers are with us--they wanted to come. As the stream was rough swimming and too deep to wade, We concluded to come on the trip the house made. How’s the folks at Dinwiddie? There’s no use to worry, The flood will subside when it gets o’er its flurry.”

Though the moments had seemed to the dancers so frightened, Like so many hours, yet their hearts were so lightened With hope, that they took the bed-slats and rowed on With a strange, nervous strength that seemed hardly their own, After all of the trials through which they had gone, And the dauntless bass-fiddler rowed swiftly the “John,” To help them to land near the dancers’ own town, Where some cried, and some danced with the crowds that came down, And many gave thanks with a quivering lip-- They were safe! They were safe! from the perilous trip.

There the house that the dancers had come in was moored, Where the tale of its marvelous venture still lured The thousands long after the flood had declined, Till piece-meal from vandals and weather combined, It fell to decay, or was carried away. ’Twas a favorite pastime on any fine day For the thoughtless to waltz through the house with a song And leaving to carry a relic along, Until nothing was left of the house that withstood The perils that came with the eighty-four flood.

The tall trees are standing, still standing alone, Where they whisper each other the nights they have known, And if they seem lonely without the old house, Yet the birds in the evenings go there to carouse. There they chatter and sing in their merriest lay, And, like dancers, choose partners in much the same way; And the boatmen will tell how they sometimes have heard There the singing of songs--not the notes of a bird-- As though festive, gay spirits still hovered around, Late, late in the night on the acre of ground.

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Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.