Here might be found a judge or lawyer on his way to court; a
sheriff with a handcuffed prisoner; a farmer or two, stopping on
the road to market with a cartful of produce; and an occasional
teamster, peddler, and stage-driver. On winter nights champion
story-tellers like Jed Morrill and Rish Bixby would drop in there
and hang their woollen neck-comforters on the pegs along the
wall-side, where there were already hats, topcoats, and fur
mufflers, as well as stacks of whips, canes, and ox-goads
standing in the corners. They would then enter the room, rubbing
their hands genially, and, nodding to Companion Pike, Cephas
Cole, Phil Perry and others, ensconce themselves snugly in the
group by the great open fireplace. The landlord was always glad
to see them enter, for their stories, though old to him, were new
to many of the assembled company and had a remarkable greet on
the consumption of liquid refreshment.
On summer evenings gossip was languid in the village, and if any
occurred at all it would be on the loafer's bench at one or the
other side of the bridge. When cooler weather came the group of
local wits gathered in Riverboro, either at Uncle Bart's joiner's
shop or at the brick store, according to fancy.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192