STARTING. 21 



Our mail-bags grow leaner as we pass them out 

 from under the boot ; the deacon has talked him- 

 self out, and with an occasional, " Rup there," 

 "Whoa, Sail," we hear but little from him. The 

 madam leans rather heavily upon my right shoul- 

 der, as if her journey, Rumford eloquence, or ca- 

 tering, had been too much for her. Charlie thinks 

 his creature comfort demands his winter overcoat. 

 The patriarch of the flock lights his pipe, and, fail- 

 ing to arouse any enthusiasm over what a charming 

 sunset there might have been under certain con- 

 tingencies, sink's into a brown study, cogitating what 

 flies he will use for his first cast. Darkness settles 

 down upon us, and the sparkle of thousands of 

 fireflies seem but the reflection of the twinkling 

 stars. 



"Only one mile more," from the deacon, rouses 

 us from our meditations ; and, as the village bell 

 rings out the hour of nine, we whirl up to the door 

 of the Andover House. 



I don't suppose that Uncle John Merrill, our 

 landlord, will ever forget, or cease to remind me, 

 how resignedly my wife fell into his arms that night 

 as she descended from her lofty perch. Charlie 

 and myself had no such kindly reception, but were 

 made very welcome, and were soon on nearly as 

 intimate terms with our good-natured host, who 



