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He was a big man, slightly bent at the shoulders, with a high, sloping forehead, a bald pate, a grey, tobacco-stained moustache and dim, grey eyes, full of quiet hospitality that sparkled brightly as he spoke.

“Folks,” he said, by way of opening the function, “I dunno why I allus have to get out here an’ say a few words. The woman told me I had to do it, so I guess that’s reason enough.”

A burst of laughter followed this remark.

“When I look around and see you folks all dressed up in yer Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes, makes me think of how much the styles is changed since the first dance we put on here. In them days, the women folks all had big hoop skirts, that ud hardly go through that there door. But now we see a change. They believe more in advertisin’ and showin’ off their ankles.”

“Ras—Ras!” came Mrs. Livermore’s disapproving voice.

Again the guests laughed, this time more heartily.

“Well—ain’t it true, folks?” he asked.

“Sure, Ras!”

“You bet.”

Just then the rural telephone, which was attached to the kitchen wall, rang five short rings.