And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door, the boys melt away, and the farce is over.
Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill. Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit, and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster from the gray mist of its pot.
Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds. The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack like Fanny Ellsler’s castanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of his whip, gallops over to the post-office.
Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels, large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins, would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to Cochecton on the Delaware waters.
The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr. Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call over mail matter before:
“Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!”
“Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants.
“That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies in the store.
“ ‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh, Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!”
“Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter.