"_What's quare, 'Manuel_? Why, look here, 'Liz'beth; I've sorted the mail here more 'n thirty year, watchin' the avalanches fall off yonder mounting, an' in all that time I've never set my foot onto the top of hit. _Most of us on this side hain't, 'Manuel; an' since the bridge rotted away an' tumbled into the gorge, there ain't no way o' gittin' thar_. 'Liz'beth, I'm nat'rally a venturesome man, though I never showed it to you, 'Liz'beth, when I ought to. That's what ye didn't. I'm a venturesome man; an' this here is what I've made up my mind to, 'Liz'beth Hough. I'm detarmined to see the top o' that mounting afore I'm a year older; an' I've set the time, 'Liz'beth--nothin' personal in that, but meanin' that when the dogwood blossoms in the spring I'm goin' to find some way to git up thar. _How'll ye do hit, 'Manuel_? Hit's likely I'll fall a tree across the gorge. _Don't do hit, 'Manuel_. Why not?" The postmaster looked wise, and put out his hand as if he were playfully touching his imaginary companion under the chin. "Why not, 'Liz'beth? _Because folks do say that the old man that lived up thar was murdered, an' that his spirit has took the form of a harnt, an' brings bad luck to such as goes up thar to disturb him._" The postmaster rose and kicked the fire impatiently. "Bah! I'm a bold man, 'Liz'beth, past occasions notwithstandin'. I'm sot an' detarmined to do hit when the dogwood-trees blossom out, an' I'm 'lowin' you'll come an' tend the office, 'Liz'beth, while I'm gone." The postmaster stood with his back to the fire, looking down over his left shoulder to where the imaginary form of Elizabeth sat. "You'll come an' spell me, will ye, 'Liz'beth? You allus was a 'commodatin' woman. No, there ain't nothin' for ye to-day--not so much as a paper. Don't be in a hurry. This here idee of explorin' that mounting has took a powerful hold on me, sure. Nothin' that you can say will prevent me from so doin'. Well, if you must go, 'Liz'beth, I s'pose hit's high time I was gittin' my supper. After I wash the dishes, I 'low to walk across to the big road an' see if there's any tracks. Good-by, 'Liz'beth. _Good-by, 'Manuel._" The postmaster was silent while he raked out a bed of coals and set the three-legged iron skillet over the very hottest place. Then he mixed some Indian meal with milk and a pinch of salt, and having patted it down in the skillet, he put on the cover, and filled the rim with more coals and some burning embers. After he had buried a potato in the ashes, and set the coffee down to warm over, he broke out again: