Painted Windows | Page 4

them, and I felt

that, in going with him, I was safe from all possible harm. The journey
had all the allurement of an adventure, for we would not know from
day to day where we should eat our meals or sleep at night. So, to
provide against trouble, we carried father's old red-and-blue- checked
army blankets, a bag of feed for Sheridan, the horse, plenty of bread,
bacon, jam, coffee and prepared cream; and we hung pails of pure
water and buttermilk from the rear of our buggy.
We had been out two weeks without failing once to eat at a proper table
or to sleep in a comfortable bed. Some- times we put up at the
stark-looking ho- tels that loomed, raw and uninviting, in the larger
towns; sometimes we had the pleasure of being welcomed at a little inn,
where the host showed us a personal hospitality; but oftener we were
forced to make ourselves "paying guests" at some house. We cared
noth- ing whether we slept in the spare rooms of a fine frame
"residence" or crept into bed beneath the eaves of the attic in a log
cabin. I had begun to feel that our journey would be almost too tame
and comfortable, when one night some- thing really happened.
Father lost his bearings. He was hoping to reach the town of Gratiot by
nightfall, and he attempted to make a short cut. To do this he turned
into a road that wound through a magnifi- cent forest, at first of oak and
butter- nut, ironwood and beech, then of densely growing pines. When
we en- tered the wood it was twilight, but no sooner were we well
within the shadow of these sombre trees than we were plunged in
darkness, and within half an hour this darkness deepened, so that we
could see nothing -- not even the horse.
"The sun doesn't get in here the year round," said father, trying his best
to guide the horse through the mire. So deep was the mud that it
seemed as if it literally sucked at the legs of the horse and the wheels of
the buggy, and I began to wonder if we should really be swallowed, and
to fear that we had met with a difficulty that even my father could not
overcome. I can hardly make plain what a tragic thought that was! The
horse began to give out sighs and groans, and in the intervals of his
struggles to get on, I could feel him trembling. There was a note of
anxiety in father's voice as he called out, with all the authority and

cheer he could command, to poor Sheri- dan. The wind was rising, and
the long sobs of the pines made cold shivers run up my spine. My teeth
chattered, partly from cold, but more from fright.
"What are we going to do?" I asked, my voice quivering with tears.
"Well, we aren't going to cry, what- ever else we do!" answered father,
rather sharply. He snatched the lighted lantern from its place on the
dashboard and leaped out into the road. I could hear him floundering
round in that terrible mire and soothing the horse. The next thing I
realised was that the horse was unhitched, that fa- ther had -- for the
first time during our journey -- laid the lash across Sheri- dan's back,
and that, with a leap of in- dignation, the horse had reached the firm
ground of the roadside. Father called out to him to stand still, and a
moment later I found myself being swung from the buggy into father's
arms. He staggered along, plunging and almost falling, and presently I,
too, stood beneath the giant pines.
"One journey more," said father, "for our supper, and then we'll
bivouac right here."
Now that I was away from the buggy that was so familiar to me, and
that seemed like a little movable piece of home, I felt, as I had not felt
before, the vastness of the solitude. Above me in the rising wind tossed
the tops of the singing trees; about me stretched the soft blackness; and
beneath the dense, interlaced branches it was almost as calm and still as
in a room. I could see that the clouds were breaking and the stars
beginning to come out, and that comforted me a little.
Father was keeping up a stream of cheerful talk.
"Now, sir," he was saying to Sheri- dan, "stand still while I get this har-
ness off you. I'll tie you and blanket you, and you can lie or stand as
you please. Here's your nose-bag, with some good supper in it, and if
you don't have drink, it's not my fault. Anyway, it isn't so long since
you got