t night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it ag'in.
Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of the
lane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow under us. Got
t'be purty spry I can tell ye.'

It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths into
the broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for swifts,
and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier.

I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began to whip
the basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping the briars.
Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber and I could hear him
feeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down, shortly,
and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. We
stumbled, often, and were long in the trail before we could see the
moonlight through the tree columns. In the clearing I climbed to my
seat again and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat down
resting his load on a boulder.

'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his brow
with that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three mile er
more without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.'

My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the jolt
of the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb, I guess
we'd better be goin'.'

The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was already
numb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and half-dead with
weariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since, that I tumbled out
of the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again,
but I remember nothing more of that day's history.

When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and felt
very warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greeting
from Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks that
he had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands with his rough
tongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea was steeping in the
little pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs and
bread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the scene
of our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, and
there was no road in sight. A wooded hill lay back of us, and, just
before, ran a noisy little brook, winding between smooth banks, through
a long pasture into a dense wood.