From the schoolroom window we could watch
the slow hands of the town clock and get a peep at what was going
on in the street, although there was seldom anybody in sight
except the Colonel's gardener or coachman, going into or out of
the driveway directly opposite. It was a very still street; the
front windows of the houses were generally closed, and a
few military-looking Lombardy poplars stood like sentinels on
guard before them.
Another shop--a very small one--joined my father's, where three
shoemakers, all of the same name--the name our lane went by--sat
at their benches and plied their "waxed ends." One of them, an
elderly man, tall and erect, used to come out regularly every
day, and stand for a long time at the corner, motionless as a
post, with his nose and chin pointing skyward, usually to the
northeast. I watched his face with wonder, for it was said that
"Uncle John" was "weatherwise," and knew all the secrets of the
heavens.
Aunt Hannah's schoolroom and "our shop" are a blended memory to
me.
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