364 SKETCHES IN PROSE. 



tracking rabbits or hunting squirrels, and then wonder 

 why he can't make a living. His society, too valuable for 

 one single community, alternates between the store and 

 tavern. There is also the man who chatters everlastingly 

 and whom no one listens to. A good portion of the talk is 

 the essence of vulgarity, some of it from the lips of hoary 

 sinners, and especially relished by the more tender youth, 

 whose legs are swinging from the counter and benches. 



The night w^ears on apace. The crowd, in numbers, re- 

 mains about the same, occasionally varying in personnel 

 by exchanges with the hotel opposite. But at last it begins to 

 dwindle. One gathers up a jug, one a coal-oil can, another a 

 basket, and another a bundle and departs. Then follow some 

 of the less inveterate loafers, and lastly, after several pointed 

 hints from the storekeeper or his boy, the sticking-plasters 

 vanish into darkness. The shutters are closed, the doors are 

 barred, the lights put out, and simmering in a stale atmos- 

 phere of tobacco smoke, the store is deserted till morning. 



BY JOHN SMITH. 



.^^^NLYaTrampT 



He stood before me dressed in a hat of the plug 

 ^^y variety, which, by continued dinting, looked like 

 the bellows of a lopsided accordion ; and a coat whose sleeve 

 cuffs showed by their silken glossiness that if he kept a pocket- 

 handkerchief it was very derelict in performing its duty. 



