In a village on the shores of Lake Champlain, in the frozen regions of northern New York, where mercury becomes solid in November, and remains so until May, I got on intimate terms, when a boy, with a stage driver. During the long winters the coaches were placed on sleds, and well do I remember the style in which "Old Bob," as he was universally called, would come dashing into the town on frosty mornings, winding uncertain tunes out of a brass horn, given him years before by a General Somebody, of the State Militia. In front of the long-porched tavern, the leaders would push out to the left, in order to give due magnificence to the right hand circle, which deposited the coach at the bar room door. Bearish in fur, and sour in face, Bob would then roll from the seat, rush up to the bar, and for the first time open his mouth, to ejaculate, "Jamaica and ginger!" The fiery draught would thaw out his tongue, as hot water does a pump, and after that it was easy work to pump him dry of any and all news on the line above. That was many years ago, and in a spot half a continent away. One morning, while at Sheridan, I heard the blast of a horn up the street, whose notes awakened echoes which had long lain dead and buried in boyhood's memory. A moment more, and out from an avenue of saloons the overland stage rattled, and on its box sat the friend of my childhood, "Old Bob." He had the identical horn, and it was the identical tune, which I had so often heard in the by-gone years, the only difference being that both were cracked, and the lungs behind the mouth-piece, touched by the winters of sixty-odd, wheezed a little. As the coach came to the door, I jumped up by the "boot," and grasping the old fellow's hand, introduced myself. Old Bob rubbed his eyes, which were weak and watery, and scanned me closely. "Well, well, lad," he said, "your face takes me now, sure enough. I mind your father and mother well, and you're the little rascal that stole my whip once, when I was thawing out with Jamaica and ginger. Did you tell me by the old tune? You did, eh? Well, truth is, lad, the horn won't blow any other. It's got to running in that groove, and when I try to coax any thing new out, it sets off so that it frightens the horses." The coach was now ready for starting, and, as he gathered up the reins, my friend of auld lang syne called out to me, "When you get back to York State, if you see any Rouse's Point people that ask for Old Bob, tell them he doesn't take any Jamaica and ginger now. Tell them he's out on the plains, tryin' to get back some of the life the cussed stuff burnt out of him." And away the stage coach rattled, and soon was out of hearing. Next day's down stage brought intelligence that Bob's coach had been attacked by Indians, but the old fellow had handled his lines right skillfully, and brought mails and passengers through in safety.