WALKING TO THE MAIL.
John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look
Above the river, and, but a month ago,
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.
Is yon plantation where this byway joins
The turnpike?
James. Yes.
John. And when does this come by?
James. The mail? At one o'clock.
John. What is it now?
James. A quarter to.
John. Whose house is that I see?
Beyond the watermills?
James. Sir Edward Head's:
But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.
John. Oh, his. He was not broken.
