and calico, and overalls, and jumpers, and cutlery. The back part of the long room was permeated with the smell of nails and ham; with the insistent sub-effluvia of oats, of tea, and of cinnamon. Rows of brilliantly wrapped canned vegetables lined the shelves, and beautiful advertising chromos were tacked up in conspicuous places. Anything that could possibly be wished for, could be bought, and anything not in sight, could be ordered,—from a Walter Wood reaper, to an Amoskeag fire engine.
It was a Monday morning, and it had been raining. If there was one dismal place to look out upon when it rained it was the town of Oakland. Through the obscuring drizzle, the wooden buildings that surrounded the square looked like huge freight cars, all ready at a signal to be pulled out in different directions. The residences of the townsfolk were not very much in evidence, but rambled off toward the railroad station a half mile or more away.
A big farm wagon towed by two plunging grays, their legs brown with mud, trundled and rumbled noisily through the heavy ruts and stopped at Van Clees & Jackson's platform. A young man in a yellow "slicker," with a
