This, however, is a sweeping remark, and does not include the various “hired helps” of the village, who are now sallying out of their respective domiciles, milk-pail in hand; and soon at every gate, and in every green lane I hear the whizzing sounds of the milk streaming in slight threads of pearl into the fast mantling pails beneath. Neither does it include poor Hank Jones who, shaking in every limb from the want of his morning dram, is hastening to the nearest bar-room; nor “Loafing Joe” either, who, I believe, never goes to bed, and who is always astir with the earliest bird, and who now, with the seeds of the hay-mow which afforded him his last night’s couch, and his hat all crushed up, giving good evidence that he has used it for a night-cap, is lounging, with his customary slouching gait, along the maple-sidewalk leading from Hamble’s. But these morning sights and sounds soon vanish—the cows wend their lazy way, lowing, to their respective sweet-scented pastures—the “helps” disappear with their foaming pails—poor lost Hank, after swallowing a draught sufficient to set his stomach in a flame, leaves for home, and even “the Loafer” has turned up the “Stone Store road” toward his little cabin on the hill-side. (He lives on the summit of “Antimony Hill,” the name for the bluff at the left of the road, forming the termination of “Coit’s Ridge.” I have a story to tell about that “Ridge” one of these days.) The village is buried in quietude, and so, I’ll go to breakfast. Well, breakfast has been dispatched, and I am again at my post, pencil in hand, to note down events as they shall occur. Ah! there comes “Squire Belldong” along the turnpike from his dwelling, after having discussed his first meal of the day. I’ll hasten up and follow him into “Saint’s” store, for I see he is bound there—that is always his first stopping-place. There’ll be some fun now. He is the greatest mischief-maker in the village, pursuing his trade out of pure love for it, for nothing delights him so much as “setting people by the ears,” as he calls it. He is a lawyer, and as he lives by this laudable business, perhaps he should not be blamed. At any rate, living or no living, he follows the business up with the pertinacity of a greyhound after a hare. “Good morning, Saint! how are you this fine morning!” is his first salutation to the keeper of the store. “Good morning, Squire! I am very well! How are you and your family!” “Very well, I thank you! although I didn’t sleep very well last night!” “Ah! what was the matter?” “Old John P.’s dog kept up such a confounded barking and yelling, that I couldn’t sleep a wink. However, there was a deuced quick stop put to it about two o’clock as I should judge.” “How was that?” “A pistol shot I fancy. I heard the report, and one yell from the dog, and then all was as quiet as could be wished.” Here Saint John began to pick up his ears. He stopped measuring some calico which he had been busy on, and said—