Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels, large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins, would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to Cochecton on the Delaware waters. The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr. Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call over mail matter before: “Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!” “Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants. “That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies in the store. “‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh, Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!” “Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter. “Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!” “Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?” “No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto voce.)