h was led by General Van
der Voort and Mrs. Dan Goodman, followed by Chief Engineer Kelly with a
daughter of Senor Rivas. I do not find among my possessions a dance
order, and hence can give no description of it; and I apprehend that the
others present would have no better success. But there was dancing, and
a lot of it.

[Illustration: INTERIOR GEN. VAN DER VOORT'S HOUSE. (_April, 1900._)]

Furthermore, it was much enjoyed, both by the participants and the
spectators. About the middle of the evening some specialties were
introduced. Chief Engineer Kelly performed a clog dance successfully,
turning a handspring at the end, and Architect Neff executed an
eccentric French dance with a skill and activity that brought down the
house. There was also good clog dancing by some of the younger men.

The ball was attended by nearly the entire colony. This was made
manifest when we lined up for supper, which was served across the
street. The procession to the tables numbered one hundred and forty
persons by actual count. The tables were set under shelter tents, and
were beautifully decorated and loaded with food. There were meats, fish,
salads, puddings, cakes, and a wonderful variety of pies, in which the
guava was conspicuous. Coffee and fruits were also much in evidence.
Never before had La Gloria seen such a spread. On this occasion the
women of the colony achieved a well-merited reputation for culinary
skill and resourcefulness. Except for a few enthusiasts, who went back
to the ballroom for more dancing, the supper wound up the evening's
festivities. The semi-anniversary had been properly celebrated, and the
first ball in La Gloria had proved successful beyond anticipation. April
9, 1900, may be set down as a red letter day in the history of the
colony.

Speaking of the ball and its orchestra calls to mind the music in the
camp in the early days of the colony. There was not much. Occasionally a
violin was heard; and more often, perhaps, a guitar or mandolin. But the
most persistent musician was a cornet player, who for a time was heard
regularly every night from one end of the camp. His wind was good, but
his repertoire small. He knew "Home, Sweet Home" from attic to cellar,
and his chief object in life seemed to be to make others as familiar
with it as himself. He played little else, and the melting notes of John
Howard Payne's masterpiece floated through the quiet camp hour after
hour, night after night. Finally, the c