Homeburg Memories | Page 3

winter
afternoon. It's four o'clock. The sun has stood the climate as long as it
can and is getting ready to duck for shelter behind the dreary fields to
the west. If you ran an automobile a mile a minute down the walk on
Main Street you wouldn't have to toot for a soul. Now and then a

farmer comes out of a store, takes a half hitch on the muffler around his
neck, puts on his bearskin gloves and unties his rig. You watch him
drive off, the wheels yelling on the hard snow, and wonder if it isn't
more cheerful out in the frozen country with the corn shocks for
company. It's the terrible half hour of bleak, fading light before the
electricity is turned on and the cozy dark comes down--the loneliest
hour of the winter's day.
You've stood it about as long as you can, when you notice signs of life
across the street. Three men carrying satchels are steering for the depot.
Dorgan's dray is rattling down the street. Dorgan's dray would make a
cheerful noise if it was the last sound on earth. Little flocks and groups
of people begin plodding across the square. You know them all. Gibb
Ogle is going over to watch the baggageman load trunks. It is Gibb's
life work. Pelty Amthorne is a little late, but he'll have time to arrange
himself against the east end door and answer the roll-call, as he has for
thirty years. Miss Ollie Mingle is going over too. She must be
expecting that Paynesville young man again. If the competition
between her and Ri Hawkes gets any keener, Ollie will have to meet
the train down at the crossing and nab the young man there. Sim
Atkinson is taking a handful of letters down to the station as usual.
Ever since he had his row with Postmaster Flint, he has refused to add
to the receipts of the office, and buys his stamps of the mail clerk. It is
Sim's hope and dream that sometime the annual receipts of the
Homeburg post-office will just miss being enough to bring a raise in
salary. Then Sim will bring it to Flint's attention that he would have
bought his ten dollars' worth of stamps that year at home, if Flint hadn't
advertised his lock box for rent when he neglected the quarterly dues.
Watching Sim thirst for revenge is as much fun as having a real Indian
in town.
There's the headlight half a mile down the track! She's coming fast, ten
minutes late, and, because you've been lonesome all afternoon and need
exercise, you slip into your coat and hustle down. Just as you get to the
depot, Number Eleven comes in with a crash and a roar, bell ringing,
steam popping off, every brake yelling, platforms loaded, expectation
intense, confusion terrific, all nerves a-tingle, and fat old Jack Ball, the

conductor, lantern under arm, sweeping majestically by on the bottom
step of the smoker. Young Red Nolan and Barney Gastit, two of the
station agent's innumerable amateur helpers, race for the baggage car
with their truck, making a terrible uproar over the old planks. The mail
clerk dumps the sacks. Usually he gets a stranger in the shin with them.
Nothing doing to-day. Just missed a traveling man. We still tell of the
time the paper sack scooted across the icy platform and stood Mayor
Andrews on his head. He wanted to abolish the whole post-office
department.
I've always realized what the city gate must have meant to the medieval
loafers, because I've watched Homeburg's city gate at the 4:11 train so
often. There's Mrs. Sim Estabrook getting home. Must have been
unexpected. No one to meet her. Wonder if Sim's sick again. I'll call up
pretty soon. Wimble Horn's been to Chicago again, evidently. Wonder
if he'll dump his last eighty acres into the Board of Trade. Who's the
fine-looking duck in the fur-lined coat? Not a transient, evidently. He
passed Josh by. Must be visiting somebody. Yes; Mrs. Ackley's kissing
him. That might mean a scandal in New York, but at home it means
relatives. Poor old Jedson Bane's back, I see. Looks pretty bad.
Hospital didn't help him. Guess he's not long for us. Hello, Jed, old man!
How are you? Better? That's fine. You're looking great! For the love of
Mike, will you take a swift look at what's got off? I believe it's from
college. They don't wear clothes like that anywhere else. Oh, yes, of
course, that's why the Singers' automobile came down. Don't know
what we'd do, now that the circus has passed us up, if it wasn't for Sally
Singer. She imports a new specimen from the University about every
two weeks.
The crowd is off, and