The Gilded Age | Page 2

one-fifteenth of Obedstown; the other
fourteen houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and
among the corn-fields in such a way that a man might stand in the
midst of the city and not know but that he was in the country if he only
depended on his eyes for information.
"Squire" Hawkins got his title from being postmaster of
Obedstown--not that the title properly belonged to the office, but
because in those regions the chief citizens always must have titles of
some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended to Hawkins.
The mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much as three or
four letters at a single delivery. Even a rush like this did not fill up the
postmaster's whole month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the
intervals.
The Squire was contemplating the morning. It was balmy and tranquil,
the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor of flowers, the murmur of
bees was in the air, there was everywhere that suggestion of repose that
summer woodlands bring to the senses, and the vague, pleasurable
melancholy that such a time and such surroundings inspire.
Presently the United States mail arrived, on horseback. There was but
one letter, and it was for the postmaster. The long-legged youth who
carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, for there was no hurry; and in a
little while the male population of the village had assembled to help. As
a general thing, they were dressed in homespun "jeans," blue or
yellow--here were no other varieties of it; all wore one suspender and
sometimes two--yarn ones knitted at home,--some wore vests, but few
wore coats. Such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather
picturesque than otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful
patterns of calico--a fashion which prevails thereto this day among
those of the community who have tastes above the common level and
are able to afford style. Every individual arrived with his hands in his
pockets; a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but it always went
back again after service; and if it was the head that was served, just the
cant that the dilapidated straw hat got by being uplifted and rooted
under, was retained until the next call altered the inclination; many' hats

were present, but none were erect and no two were canted just alike.
We are speaking impartially of men, youths and boys. And we are also
speaking of these three estates when we say that every individual was
either chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, or
smoking the same in a corn-cob pipe. Few of the men wore whiskers;
none wore moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under the chin
and hiding the throat--the only pattern recognized there as being the
correct thing in whiskers; but no part of any individual's face had seen a
razor for a week.
These neighbors stood a few moments looking at the mail carrier
reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon began to show itself, and
one after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the fence,
hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled for
supper and listening for the death-rattle. Old Damrell said:
"Tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, hit ain't likely?"
"Cain't tell for sartin; some thinks he's gwyne to be 'long toreckly, and
some thinks 'e hain't. Russ Mosely he tote ole Hanks he mought git to
Obeds tomorrer or nex' day he reckoned."
"Well, I wisht I knowed. I got a 'prime sow and pigs in the, cote-house,
and I hain't got no place for to put 'em. If the jedge is a gwyne to hold
cote, I got to roust 'em out, I reckon. But tomorrer'll do, I 'spect."
The speaker bunched his thick lips together like the stem-end of a
tomato and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on a weed seven feet
away. One after another the several chewers expressed a charge of
tobacco juice and delivered it at the deceased with steady, aim and
faultless accuracy.
"What's a stirrin', down 'bout the Forks?" continued Old Damrell.
"Well, I dunno, skasely. Ole, Drake Higgins he's ben down to Shelby
las' week. Tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o' the most uv it; hit
wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he 'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to
wait tell fall. Talks 'bout goin' to Mozouri--lots uv 'ems talkin'

that-away down thar, Ole Higgins say. Cain't make a livin' here no mo',
sich times as these. Si Higgins he's ben over to Kaintuck n' married a
high-toned gal thar, outen the fust families, an' he's come back to the
Forks with jist a hell's-mint o' whoop-jamboree notions, folks