44 WINTER SKETCHES. 



near by, a porch with side seats at the front 

 door, a piazza leading around to the bar-room 

 more frequently entered, planks here and there 

 missing, the cornices rotted off, blinds for 

 some windows, half-blinds for others, no blinds 

 at all for the rest, and before it a gallows sign 

 with its paint obliterated, so that the form of 

 Gen. Washing:ton or of a horse, whichever it 

 may be, could not be traced, swinging and 

 creaking on its time-worn hinges. The stable, 

 of course, had my first consideration. Riding 

 over the grass-grown track to the door, and 

 kicking against it to call out some sign of life, 

 a squeaking voice responded, and presently 

 emerged an old man whose clothes and hair 

 were covered with hayseed, for he had been 

 startled from his sleep. Rubbing his eyes 

 with a dazed expression, like that of Rip Van 

 Winkle as he wakes upon the stage, he in- 

 quired : " Who be you, and what do you 

 want ? " 



" I want my horse put up for the night," I 

 replied. 



*' Where's your cattle ? " 



"Cattle?" 



" Yes, cattle ; ain't you driving ? " 



"Driving cattle? No, I came from New 



