“I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.”
“I promise of course. Now, who was it?”
“Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.”
“Bill Claypole! Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into a heap!”
“So am I, and I haven’t been struck out of it yet. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I must go to my office. Good morning.”
And away goes Belldong after having, like a great spider, woven a web of mischief all over the blessed village, that isn’t untangled in a month, and will probably be the cause of divers fisticuffings, if not lawsuits.
In the meanwhile, the sun has glided higher and higher on his golden wheel up his steep blue eastern pathway. The day promises to be a real Titian, where a splendid coloring steeps the landscape in a lake of light, where the rich yellows and deep blacks lie side by side in distinct gradations, where the leaves embroider their ghostly counterfeits on the sidewalks, where the sky is glittering in its most cerulean intensity, and the air is so crystal clear that the outlines of the distant hills seem as if traced with a hair-pencil on their azure background. The morning shadows, however, are commencing to shrink back, so that an edging of sunlight stripes the left border of the village street, whilst the street itself is bathed in deep gold, and the white houses opposite sparkle from the breaks in the glossy foliage with the most radiant and beautiful effect.
The country wagons now begin to roll in. Old Taggett appears with his ox-cart creaking like “Deacon Morgan, with his voice like a wagon,” and urging his piebald steeds with a goad as long as Mrs. T.’s tongue (and that is long enough in all conscience).
Deacon Decker is also in the village, having driven from “Decker’s Settlement” since sunrise, with eggs and butter to exchange for goods and groceries at Saint John’s store; and, as I’m alive if here doesn’t come old Deacon Lackstir, urging his fat lazy horses to an unwonted trot, as if on especial and driving business.
He is making his way to Esq. Loop’s, and I’ll enter the precincts of “Pettifogger’s Delight,” to see what constitutes his hurry.