Now and then they stopped a few moments, to leave a passenger, a package, or a mail-bag; for the strong leathern bags, with brass padlocks, which the driver had carefully packed away under his box, contained the United States' mails for the towns along his route.
As they advanced on their way, the villages became less frequent, the farm houses were more scattering, and the country grew more wild.
Sometimes the road extended for miles through thickly-wooded forests.
Occasionally they would come in sight of a river, and, perhaps, would hear the clatter and whizzing of a saw-mill, or get a glimpse of a raft of logs floating lazily down the stream.

It was about six o'clock when the stage stopped at the post-office of a small settlement, and the driver told Oscar he was going to leave him there.

His seat had grown tiresome, during the last few hours, and he was by no means sorry to leave it.
"Well, Jerry, here I am again," said Mr.Preston, addressing a boy who stood by.

"How are all the folks at home ?" "They are well," replied the boy addressed.
"This way Oscar," said Mr.Preston, pointing to a horse and wagon on the opposite side of the street.

"Oscar, this is your cousin Jerry," he continued, and the boys shook hands with each other, in acknowledgment of the introduction.
Oscar now learned that they were yet five miles from Brookdale, and that as the stage did not pass any nearer to his uncle's, Jerry had come over with a horse to take his father home.