the hour of ten
The houses of Borealis stood to right and left of this path through the wilderness , as if by common consent to let it through . Meagre , unknown , unimportant Borealis , with her threescore men and one decent woman , shared , like the weightiest empire , in the smile , the care , the yearning of the ever All-Pitiful , greeting the earth with another perfect day . Intelligence of what could be expected , in the way of a celebration at the blacksmith-shop of Webber , had been more than merely spread ; it had almost been flooded over town . Long before the hour of ten , scheduled by common consent for church to commence , Webber was sweeping sundry parings of horse-hoof and scraps of iron to either side of his hard earth floor , and sprinkling the dust with water that he flirted from his barrel . He likewise wiped off the anvil with his leathern apron , and making a fire in the forge to take off the chill , thrust in a huge hunk of iron to irradiate the heat . Many of the denizens of Borealis came and laid siege to the barber-shop as early as six in the morning . Hardly a man in the place , except Parky , the gambler , had been dressed in extravagance so imposing since the 4th of July as was early apparent in the street .