TWICE TOLD TALES

THE SEVEN VAGABONDS

By Nathaniel Hawthorne



Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer of the year,
I came one afternoon to a point which gave me the choice of three
directions. Straight before me, the main road extended its dusty
length to Boston; on the left a branch went towards the sea, and would
have lengthened my journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles; while
by the right-hand path, I might have gone over hills and lakes to
Canada, visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. On a
level spot of grass, at the foot of the guidepost, appeared an object,
which, though locomotive on a different principle, reminded me of
Gulliver's portable mansion among the Brobdignags. It was a huge
covered wagon, or, more properly, a small house on wheels, with a door
on one side and a window shaded by green blinds on the other. Two
horses, munching provender out of the baskets which muzzled them, were
fastened near the vehicle: a delectable sound of music proceeded from
the interior; and I immediately conjectured that this was some
itinerant show, halting at the confluence of the roads to intercept
such idle travellers as myself. A shower had long been climbing up
the western sky, and now hung so blackly over my onward path that it
was a point of wisdom to seek shelter here.

"Halloo! Who stands guard here? Is the doorkeeper asleep?" cried I,
approaching a ladder of two or three steps which was let down from the