378 BUFFALO LAND. 



cury becomes solid in November, and remains so 

 until May, I got on intimate terms, when a boy, 

 with a stage driver. During the long winters the 

 coaches were placed on sleds, and well do I remem- 

 ber the style in which " Old Bob," as he was uni- 

 versally called, would come dashing into the town 

 on frosty mornings, winding uncertain tunes out of 

 a brass horn, given him years before by a General 

 Somebody, of the State Militia. In front of the long- 

 porched tavern, the leaders would push out to the 

 left, in order to give due magnificence to the right 

 hand circle, which deposited the coach at the bar- 

 room door. Bearish in fur, and sour in face, Bob 

 would then roll from the seat, rush up to the bar, and 

 for the first time open his mouth, to ejaculate, " Ja- 

 maica and ginger! " The fiery draught would thaw 

 out his tongue, as hot water does a pump, and after 

 that it was easy work to pump him dry of any and 

 all news on the line above. 



That was many years ago, and in a spot half a 

 continent away. One morning, while at Sheridan, I 

 heard the blast of a horn up the street, whose 

 notes awakened echoes which had long lain dead 

 and buried in boyhood's memory. A moment 

 more, and out from an avenue of saloons the over- 

 land stage rattled, and on its box sat the friend of 

 my childhood, "Old Bob." He had the identical 

 horn, and it was the identical tune, which I had so 

 often heard in the by-gone years, the only difference 

 being that both were cracked, and the lungs behind 

 the mouth-piece, touched by the winters of sixty-odd, 

 wheezed a little. As the coach came to the door, I 



