produced by david widger

twice told tales

the toll-gatherer's day

a sketch of transitory life

by nathaniel hawthorne

if any mortal be favored with a lot analogous to this , it is the toll-gatherer .

sitting on the aforesaid bench , i amuse myself with a conception , illustrated by numerous pencil-sketches in the air , of the toll-gatherer 's day .

the toll is paid , creak , creak , again go the wheels , and the huge haymow vanishes into the morning mist .

as yet , nature is but half awake , and familiar objects appear visionary .

the morn breathes upon them and blushes , and they forget how wearily the darkness toiled away .

the old man looks eastward , and ( for he is a moralizer ) frames a simile of the stage coach and the sun .

while the world is rousing itself , we may glance slightly at the scene of our sketch .

beneath the window is a wooden bench , on which a long succession of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves .

and there sits our good old toll-gatherer , glorified by the early sunbeams .

now the sun smiles upon the landscape , and earth smiles back again upon the sky .

frequent , now , are the travellers .

the bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious bandboxes and carpet-bags , and beneath the axle swings a leathern trunk dusty with yesterday 's journey .

luckless wight , doomed , through a whole summer day , to be the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolicsome maidens !

the vinegar-faced traveller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles .

he is a country preacher , going to labor at a protracted meeting .

the next object passing townward is a butcher 's cart , canopied with its arch of snow-white cotton .

see there , a man trundling a wheelbarrow-load of lobsters .

but let all these pay their toll and pass .

but methinks her blushing cheek burns through the snowy veil .

another white-robed virgin sits in front .

take my blessing too , ye happy ones !

may the sky not frown upon you , nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen rain !

may the hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts !

in a close carriage sits a fragile figure , muffled carefully , and shrinking even from the mild breath of summer .

she leans against a manly form , and his arm infolds her , as if to guard his treasure from some enemy .

and now has morning gathered up her dewy pearls , and fled away .

the sun rolls blazing through the sky , and cannot find a cloud to cool his face with .

glisten , too , the faces of the travellers .

no air is stirring on the road .

nature dares draw no breath , lest she should inhale a stifling cloud of dust .

" awful hot !

dreadful dusty ! " answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer .

yes , old friend ; and a quiet heart will make a dog-day temperate .

and as the wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey , he tells him a sovereign remedy for blistered feet .

now comes the noontide hour , of all the hours nearest akin to midnight ; for each has its own calmness and repose .

meanwhile , on both sides of the chasm , a throng of impatient travellers fret and fume .

and what are the haughtiest of us , but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer 's day ?

here a frenchman , with a hand-organ on his shoulder ; and there an itinerant swiss jeweller .

what miracle shall set all things right again ?

the sage old man !

strollers come from the town to quaff the freshening breeze .

one or two let down long lines , and haul up flapping flounders ? or cunners , or small cod , or perhaps an eel .

the horses now tramp heavily along the bridge , and wistfully bethink them of their stables .

end of the project gutenberg ebook of the toll gatherer 's day ( from " twice told tales " ) , by nathaniel hawthorne