s and letters in a primitive set of pine pigeon-holes on
the wall, turned out the loafers, "banked up" the fire, and went home to
bed.

"Life" Lane was a jolly good fellow,--just the man to sit on the box
seat and drive the three horses through ruts and "thank-you-ma'ams,"
slush and mud and snow. There was a perennial twinkle in his eye,
his ruddy cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, and he had a good story
forever on the tip of his tongue. He stood six feet two in his stockings
(his mother used to say she had the longest Life of any woman in the
State o' Maine); his shoulders were broad in proportion, and his lungs
just the sort to fill amply his noble chest. Therefore, when he had what
was called in the vernacular "turrible bad goin'," and when any other
stage-driver in York County would have shrunk into his muffler and
snapped and snarled on the slightest provocation, Life Lane opened his
great throat when he passed over the bridges at Moderation or Bonny
Eagle, and sent forth a golden, sonorous "Yo ho! halloo!" into the still
air. The later it was and the stormier it was, the more vigor he put
into the note, and it was a drowsy postmaster indeed who did not start
from his bench by the fire at the sound of that ringing halloo. Thus the
old stage-coach, in Life Lane's time, was generally called "The Midnight
Cry," and not such a bad name either, whether the term was derisively
applied because the stage was always late; or whether Life's "Yo ho!"
had caught the popular fancy.

There was a pretty girl in Pleasant River (and, alas! another in Bonny
Eagle) who went to bed every night with the chickens, but stayed awake
till she heard first the rumble of heavy wheels on a bridge, then a
faint, bell-like tone that might have come out of the mouth of a silver
horn; whereupon she blushed as if it were an offer of marriage, and
turned over and went to sleep.

If the stage arrived in good season, Life would have a few minutes to
sit on the loafers' beach beside the big open fire; and what a feature
he was, with his tales culled from all sorts of passengers, who were
never so fluent as when sitting beside him "up in front!" There was a
tallow dip or two, and no other light save that of the fire. Who that
ever told a story could wish a more inspiring auditor than Jacob Bean,
a literal, honest old fellow who took the most vital interest in every
detail of the stories told, looking upon their heroes and their
villains as personal