It's Saturday night.

The second-floor ballroom over the town hall in the small Monadnock village of Fitzwilliam, N.H. is filled with dancers. It's a mixed crowd: some old folks, some young, mostly people in their mid-20s to early 50s. They are standing in couples, chatting restlessly, forming the long, double lines in which traditional New England contra dances are done. No one has announced that a contra is coming next, but then no one has to: all of these people have danced to Duke Miller before.

"I don't think Duke's changed his program in 30 years," my partner tells me. "Starts with a contra, three squares, a polka, and a break. Then the second set always begins with 'Chorus Jig'." She smiles happily. "He's just great!"

The small bandstand is crowded. Of the nine or ten musicians on the platform, only two have been hired to play: the lead fiddler and the piano player. These two sit back to back, the better to hear each other. Directly in front of them is Duke Miller's chair. There is no discussion of upcoming tunes. Like the dancers, the musicians know what's next.