’LECTION DAY , '92. 
221 
how well enough, but his roads have no clay 
mud, his wagon runs easily, so he drives instead 
of riding. Not one man in fifty owns a saddle. 
Who is it, then, that comes up the long street 
at a breakneck pace, with flapping hat, trailing 
whip, and rattling spurs? He rides well, and 
has a dashing air about him strangely in con¬ 
trast to the slouch of the man who always drives, 
with shoulders hunched and back curved. He 
proves to be a city man who has had enough of 
a ranch and is now extracting occupation from 
a farm and summer boarders. 
Now a silk hat and a satin necktie loom up 
in the throng. They grace a sleek son of the 
town who has a store “down country,” but who 
comes home to vote. The silk hat looks 
strangely out of place among the well-worn felts 
and woolen caps which cover most of the heads 
in the crowd. 
The bell in the meeting-house tower moves, 
and then its clang strikes harshly on the ear. 
Half a mile away it would be sweet-toned; here 
it is merely discordant. The men straggle into 
the town-house in large groups, and soon the 
room is crowded. Good air goes out by the 
chimney when the smokers come in by the door. 
The supervisors are in their seats, and an ex¬ 
cited discussion is taking place in which they 
and many in the crowd join. An oldish man 
