None of the horses looked as though they would run away if they were not tied, but all of them were securely fastened to hitching rails and posts.
We had a number of things to attend to at the store. A poor old gray-haired woman, who lived alone at the edge of the village, had requested John to “please see if there is a letter for me when you stop at the post office, and bring it to me on your way back, if there is one.”
John had presented her with a fish, and said that he always gave her one when he went by, when he had a good supply.
“She’s bin expectin’ that letter fer nearly twenty years, from ’er son that went away, but it don’t never come. She’s always waitin’ at the gate, when I go back, to see if I git it.”
Alas, how many forlorn ones there are who wait, with hearts that ache, through the lonesome years, for letters that “don’t never come!” Those who have gone may have wandered far in the world—they may have forgotten, or their fingers may have become cold and still, but there is hope in one heart that only ends with life itself. A pen may sometimes tremble, lips may sometimes falter, and eyes become dim, when the thought comes that a mother’s love will be “waitin’ at the gate” when the other loves in this world are dead.
“WAITIN’ AT THE GATE”
We tied Napoleon tightly with a big piece of rope which it would be utterly impossible for him to break if he should attempt to run away, fixed a small bag of oats so that he could munch them, and went over to the platform.
John was greeted with solemn nods, good-natured sallies, in which there was more or less wit—generally less—and various questions about “the fishin’.” One old fellow had “bin over to the river” and “seen a feller with a couple o’ catfish an’ a pick’rel, but ’e’d bin all day gittin’ ’em, an’ ’e didn’t need no wheelbarrow to git ’em home.”
We went inside the store to make a few purchases, and to inquire for any mail which we might be able to leave with people who lived on the return route.