he 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 h