May 30, 1844, Thursday.

About midmorning, Jim Tanner walked up to the east end of Main Street to assist Mr Dougherty, the postmaster and his apprentice master, at readying the mail for the expected arrival of the noon coach. It hadn't rained, and his patched boots kicked up a bit of dust as he walked, which Jim found preferable to mud. He noticed with pleasure the sound of songbirds in the trees, to be heard above the lowing of cattle, cackling of hens, and competitive crowing by roosters. By the doors of cabins, native daffodils had sprung up, their yellow-and-white cups adding a festive touch beside the unpainted, weathered boards of the dwellings. Jim whistled a few bird calls, just for the pleasure of hearing the birds answer, although he knew if a bird got close enough to see him, it would chatter in annoyance at being fooled. Besides daffodils, there were some crocuses in front of Barnett's Inn, he noticed as he entered Mr Dougherty's shop, which was next to it.

He found Mr Dougherty, a tall man with greying black hair, dealing with a postal customer, Mr Sweeney. Mr Sweeney wasn't happy about the postage rates.

'I can't help that, Abner,' sighed Mr Dougherty. 'I don't set the postal rates. That's up to Congress. That letter's going all the way to Pittsburgh. Twelve-and-a-half-cents.'

Sweeney, a red-faced individual, tended to be combative. Even his facial hair – a Henry Thoreau-style neck beard – looked belligerent. He pulled a worn almanac out of his pocket, thumbed through it, and thrust a page in Dougherty's face.

'Lookee here! It says '30-80 miles, ten cents! Pittsburgh is 80 mile from here.' He folded his arms, still holding the open almanac, with grim satisfaction.

Dougherty sighed again. 'That's mebbe as the crow flies, Abner. But this letter ain't goin' by carrier crow. It's going by mail coach, and by the road, it's 120 miles.' He grabbed the almanac before Sweeney could defend it, and pointed to the offending price schedule. 'See? '80-150 miles, twelve-and-a-half cents.' Sorry, Abner.'

Grumbling, Sweeney paid the exorbitant price, and Mr Dougherty affixed his personally-designed (and hand-glued) stamp, remarking, 'One of these days, they need to design an official national postage stamp¹.'

Sweeney snorted, 'They'll probably raise the price. No, thank you.' He took his receipt with ill grace and stamped out the open door.

A few customers came and went – postal and dry goods. The hour was nearing noon, as Jim could tell from the change in sunlight (hardly anyone owned a watch), when a loud, but not particularly musical, trumpet call was heard echoing from the east. Er-ah! Er-ah! Tat, tat, t-a-h! Tat t-a-h! It was the stage approaching. The call was to alert the postmaster, and also to allow the coachmen to act important.

Und hörte aus weiter Ferne

Ein Posthorn im stillen Land.

thought Jim, who kept company with Matilda Schlaugenhaupt until that young lady had gone to Ohio with her large family. Matilda was big on poetry, and had read him a lot of it. Some of it stuck. Briefly, Jim pictured Matilda's blonde braids and perfect smile, and wished he knew where to write her. Then he shook off the thought, and went outside to watch the stage come in.

As usual, it was an impressive sight. The coach was a beautiful Rockaway model (made in Concord, New Hampshire), with smart red paint and gold lettering on the side. It was being pulled by four furiously-running horses. From time to time, Bill Adams, the driver, cracked his long whip over their heads to spur them on, and basically, just to show off. It worked: Jim was dead jealous. All of the coach drivers had a lot of swagger, but Adams was the worst of the lot, in Jim's opinion. Adams obviously thought a great deal of himself. Still, that coach looked elegant, even with a dozen people inside and another half-dozen beside the driver, or hanging for dear life onto the roof.

Jim knew that it was a special point of pride with the coach drivers to take the turn into town on a 'complete run'. He watched closely to see Adams' technique in action. He wasn't disappointed – but Adams was. Adams was looking very pleased with himself as the horses rounded the turn at a full gallop. They looked very fine…until the coach wheel hit a stone. Then all was confusion: Adams frantically pulling on reins, passengers on top shouting and grabbing anything they could hold onto, and baggage flying dangerously into Elijah Heath's back pasture. Luckily, the coach didn't turn over: but, just as it was about to right itself while passing the door of Barnett's Inn, the coach doors flew open…

…and a dozen passengers became airborne. They sailed right through the open doors of the inn and landed in a heap on the floor of the saloon. As everyone rushed around – to assess injuries, help the afflicted, fetch a doctor, or simply avoid horses' hooves – Jim discovered the true meaning of another word Matilda had taught him: Schadenfreude.

Dmitri Gheorgheni