The Seven Vagabonds

From Twice Told Tales

Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year,
I came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three
directions. Straight before me, the main road extended its dusty
length to Boston; on the left a branch went towards the sea, and would
have lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles; while
by the right-hand path, I might have gone over hills and lakes to
Canada, visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. On a
level spot of grass, at the foot of the guidepost, appeared an object,
which, though locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of
Gulliver's portable mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge
covered wagon, or, more properly, a small house on wheels, with a door
on one side and a window shaded by green blinds on the other. Two
horses, munching provender out of the baskets which muzzled them, were
fastened near the vehicle: a delectable sound of music proceeded from
the interior; and I immediately conjectured that this was some
itinerant show, halting at the confluence of the roads to intercept
such idle travellers as myself. A shower had long been climbing up
the western sky, and now hung so blackly over my onward path that it
was a point of wisdom to seek shelter here.

"Halloo! Who stands guard here? Is the doorkeeper asleep?" cried I,
approaching a ladder of two or three steps which was let down from the
wagon.

The music ceased at my summons, and there appeared at the door, not
the sort of figure that I had mentally assigned to the wandering
showman, but a most respectable old personage, whom I was sorry to
have addressed in so free a style. He wore a snuff colored coat and
small-clothes, with white-top boots, and exhibited the mild dignity of
aspect and manner which may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters,
and sometimes in deacons, selectmen, or other potentates of that kind.
A small piece of silver was my passport within his premises, where I
found only one other person, hereafter to be described.

"This is a dull day for business," said the old gentleman, as he
ushered me in; "but I merely tarry here to refresh the cattle, being
bound for the camp-meeting at Stamford."

Perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still peregrinating New
England, and may enable the reader to test the accuracy of my
description. The spectacle--for I will not use the unworthy term of
puppet-show--consisted of a multitude of little people assembled on a
miniature stage. Among them were artisans of every kind, in the
attitudes of their toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen
standing ready for the dance; a company of foot-soldiers formed a line
across