noon
`` Choose yore pardners ! '' rang his voice in the joyous jesting of youth . And -- marvel and miracle -- then and there , those lean brown folk did take up the jest , and laughingly gathered on the sun-seared sands . They formed sets and danced -- danced a dance of the indomitable , at high noon , the heat blinding , the sand hot under feet not all of which were shod . Molly Wingate , herself fifty and full-bodied , cast down her firewood , caught up her skirt with either hand and made good an old-time jig to the tune of the violin and the roaring accompaniment of many voices and of patted hands . She paused at length , dropping her calico from between her fingers , and hastened to a certain wagon side as she wiped her face with her apron . `` Did n't you hear it , Molly ? ''