NIGHT A

But father was too well used to hard journeys to fear 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. Sometimes we put up at the stark-looking hotels

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 nothing 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 something 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 magnificent forest, at first of oak and butternut,

ironwood and beech, then of densely growing pines. When we entered 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 Sheridan. 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.