The musician was an old gray-headed negro
who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more
than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as
himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three
strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of
the head, bowing almost to the ground and stamping with his foot
whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichobod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal
powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have
seen his loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering about
the room you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed
patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was
the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered, of all
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming
a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing
with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and
showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the
flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The
lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling
graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones,
sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in
one corner.
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