We had the rack piled higher than before, with the Christmas trees and the boxes of lion's-paw in the front end, and all those witches' brooms stacked and lashed on at the rear.

The load was actually fourteen feet high, yet far from heavy; witches' brooms are dry and light.

A northwest wind, blowing in heavy gusts behind us, fairly pushed us along the road.

We got on fast, baited our team at New Gloucester at one o'clock in the afternoon, and by dusk had reached Welch's Tavern, eleven miles out of Portland.
Here we put up for the night; as our load was too bulky to draw into the barn, we were obliged to leave it in the yard outside, near the garden fence--fifty yards, perhaps, from the tavern piazza.
We had supper and were about to go to bed, when in came three fellows who had driven up from the city, on their way to hunt moose in Batchelder's Grant.

All three were in a hilarious mood; they called for supper, and said that they meant to drive on to Ricker's Tavern, at the Poland Spring.
There was a lively fire on the hearth, for the night was cold and windy; the newcomers stood in front of it--while Addison and I sat back, looking on.