However late it might be, the village postmaster had to be on hand
to receive and open the mailbags; after which he distributed
the newspapers 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.
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