Half-way down this stretch of sunshine--and what
a lovely stretch it was--there had stood for years
a venerable mansion with high chimneys, sloping roof,
and quaint dormer-windows, shaded by a tall sycamore
that spread its branches far across the street.
Two white marble steps guarded by old-fashioned iron
railings led up to the front door, which bore on its
face a silver-plated knocker, inscribed in letters of
black with the name Of its owner--"Richard Horn."
All three, the door, the white marble steps, and the
silver-plated knocker--not to forget the round silver
knobs ornamenting the newel posts of the railings--
were kept as bright as the rest of the family plate by
that most loyal of servants, old Malachi, who daily
soused the steps with soap and water, and then brought
to a phenomenal polish the knocker, bell-pull, and
knobs by means of fuller's-earth, turpentine, hard
breathing, and the vigorous use of a buckskin rag.

If this weazened-faced, bald-headed old darky, resplendent
in white shirt-sleeves, green baize apron, and
never-ceasing smile of welcome, happened to be engaged
in this cleansing and polishing process--and it
occurred every morning--and saw any friend of his
master approaching, he would begin removing his pail
and brushes and throwing wide the white door before
the visitor reached the house, would there await his
coming, bent double in profound salutation. Indeed,
whenever Malachi had charge of the front steps he
seldom stood upright, so constantly was he occupied--