accomplished by designating the adjacent, as, "Up at
Bardlocks'," "Down by Schofields'," "Right where Hibbards live," "Acrost
from Sol. Tibbs's," or, "Other side of Jones's field." In winter, Main
Street was a series of frozen gorges land hummocks; in fall and spring,
a river of mud; in summer, a continuing dust heap; it was the best
street in Plattville.

The people lived happily; and, while the world whirled on outside, they
were content with their own. It would have moved their surprise as
much as their indignation to hear themselves spoken of as a "secluded
community"; for they sat up all night to hear the vote of New York,
every campaign. Once when the President visited Rouen, seventy miles
away, there were only few bankrupts (and not a baby amongst them) left
in the deserted homes of Carlow County. Everybody had adventures; almost
everybody saw the great man; and everybody was glad to get back home
again. It was the longest journey some of them ever set upon, and these,
elated as they were over their travels, determined to think twice ere
they went that far from home another time.

On Saturdays, the farmers enlivened the commercial atmosphere of
Plattville; and Miss Tibbs, the postmaster's sister and clerk, used to
make a point of walking up and down Main Street as often as possible,
to get a thrill in the realization of some poetical expressions that
haunted her pleasingly; phrases she had employed frequently in her poems
for the "Carlow County Herald." When thirty or forty country people were
scattered along the sidewalks in front of the stores on Main Street, she
would walk at nicely calculated angles to the different groups so as to
leave as few gaps as possible between the figures, making them appear
as near a solid phalanx as she could. Then she would murmur to herself,
with the accent of soulful revel, "The thronged city streets," and,
"Within the thronged city," or, "Where the thronging crowds were
swarming and the great cathedral rose." Although she had never been
beyond Carlow and the bordering counties in her life, all her poems were
of city streets and bustling multitudes. She was one of those who had
been unable to join the excursion to Rouen when the President was there;
but she had listened avidly to her friends' descriptions of the crowds.
Before that time her muse had been sylvan, speaking of "Flow'rs of May,"
and hinting at thoughts that overcame her when she roved the woodlands
thro'; but now t