The man had a
pleasant, but sly, dark face; he carried his whole establishment on his
shoulder, it being fastened to a staff which he rested on the ground when
he performed. A little crowd of people gathered about him on the stoop,
peeping over each other's heads with huge admiration,--fat Otis Hodge,
and the tall stage-driver, and the little boys, all declaring that it was
the masterpiece of sights. Some few coppers did the man obtain, as well
as much praise. He had come over the high, solitary mountain, where for
miles there could hardly be a soul to hear his music.
In the evening, a portly old commissioner, a cheerful man enough, was
sitting reading the newspaper in the parlor, holding the candle between
the newspaper and his eyes,--its rays glittering on his silver-bowed
spectacles and silvery hair. A pensive mood of age had come upon him,
and sometimes he heaved a long sigh, while he turned and re-turned the
paper, and folded it for convenient reading. By and by a gentleman came
to see him, and he talked with him cheerfully.
The fat old squire, whom I have mentioned more than once, is an odd
figure, with his bluff, red face,--coarsely red,--set in silver hair,--
his clumsy legs, which he moves in a strange straddle, using, I believe,
a broomstick for a staff.
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