Mail days were bright days in our calendar. They came only once a week—but that day always brought something. We then sat down, wife, children, and all, and posted up the books of the past. The letters brushed off the dust from the pictures of distant friends that were hanging in our souls—and those pictures talked. Some were sick; some were married; some had gone to one place, some to another. They were sailing on the great current of life as well as we. We were all together, yet apart; and these letters were only a shaking of hands across the flood that divided us—the shuttle that wove our passage into one.
And then the newspapers were something more to us than ever before. The jar and roar of the world, like music, was softened and mellowed by distance. Advertisements grew valuable; and our little daughter Kate absolutely read a patent-medicine notice from end to end without smiling.
During the winter, my wife made a little "come-to-tea" gathering, for the purpose, as she said, of getting "better acquainted with her neighbors." We were living, as I have stated before, a little out of the village of Puddleford, and our opportunities for seeing its society were not very good. She invited Squire Longbow and wife (of course); Bates and wife; Turtle and wife; Mrs. Sonora Brown, Tom Beagle and his clique—in fact, it was got up "without distinction of party," as our house was neutral ground, never having thus far been the scene of a social fight. I set apart the day to attend to our guests.
The first lady who made her appearance was Mrs. Sonora Brown, who had walked out from Puddleford alone, and who hove in sight, pursuant to her invitation to come to tea, at about two P. M.
The snow was falling fast, and the wind quite rough, but Mrs. Sonora didn't mind that. She was covered with one of those plaid cloaks that were made twenty years ago, had on a pair of heavy brogan boots (sensible woman), a tight hood, and over that a red and white cotton handkerchief tied under her chin. The old lady sailed along through the gale as calmly and stately as a seventy-four. When she reached the door, she rapped and stamped, and gave a loud hawk, all of which she undoubtedly thought ought to announce her presence.
My wife opened the door. "Well," exclaimed Sonora, "you see I've come," giving her cloak a hearty shake, and scattering the snow about her.
"Glad—very glad to see you," replied my wife.
"I know'd you would be—that's just what I told 'em," continued Sonora; "you ain't so dreadfully stuck up out here as some folks tries to make believe, arter all."
"We are like most other people, I suppose," said my wife.
Sonora took off her hood, when her eyes fell upon me. "So, this your man? I'd hearn tell on him, but never see'd him afore, near by—and there are the children! and that is your big looking-glass they tell'd about! The dear massy on us," she exclaimed, "how nice!"