n
up smartly and pulled up short; but as it is rising ground, and the
horse does not easily reach the water with the wagon pulling back, the
nervous man in the buggy hitches forward on his seat, as if that would
carry the wagon a little ahead! Next, lumber-wagon with load of boards;
horse wants to turn up, and driver switches him and cries "G'lang," and
the horse reluctantly goes by, turning his head wistfully towards the
flowing spout. Ah, here comes an equipage strange to these parts, and
John stands up to look; an elegant carriage and two horses; trunks
strapped on behind; gentleman and boy on front seat and two ladies on
back seat,--city people. The gentleman descends, unchecks the horses,
wipes his brow, takes a drink at the spout and looks around, evidently
remarking upon the lovely view, as he swings his handkerchief in an
explanatory manner. Judicious travelers. John would like to know who
they are. Perhaps they are from Boston, whence come all the wonderfully
painted peddlers' wagons drawn by six stalwart horses, which the driver,
using no rein, controls with his long whip and cheery voice. If so,
great is the condescension of Boston; and John follows them with an
undefined longing as they drive away toward the mountains of Zoar. Here
is a footman, dusty and tired, who comes with lagging steps. He stops,
removes his hat, as he should to such a tree, puts his mouth to the
spout, and takes a long pull at the lively water. And then he goes on,
perhaps to Zoar, perhaps to a worse place.

So they come and go all the summer afternoon; but the great event of
the day is the passing down the valley of the majestic stage-coach,--the
vast yellow-bodied, rattling vehicle. John can hear a mile off the
shaking of chains, traces, and whiffle-trees, and the creaking of its
leathern braces, as the great bulk swings along piled high with trunks.
It represents to John, somehow, authority, government, the right of way;
the driver is an autocrat, everybody must make way for the stage-coach.
It almost satisfies the imagination, this royal vehicle; one can go in
it to the confines of the world,--to Boston and to Albany.

There were other influences that I daresay contributed to the boy's
education. I think his imagination was stimulated by a band of gypsies
who used to come every summer and pitch a tent on a little roadside
patch of green turf by the river-bank not far from his house. It was
shaded by elms and butternut-trees, and a