It was not yet five o’clock when we drove noiselessly away from the door. If I remember rightly, we were not noiseless after that. The morning was delightful, slightly cool,—but that was no impediment to our warm blood, owing to the thoroughwort,—and we sped on in an exuberant flow of spirits. “Simon” was in excellent travelling order, and went without whip or spur. We should have reached the village of B., where we were to breakfast, and bait Simon, by eight o’clock, but George would insist on making the acquaintance, nolens volens, of half the farmers on the road, ostensibly to inquire the way to B.
“Hallo!” he shouted, reining up Simon before a small farm-house. Up flew a window, and out popped a nightcapped head.
“What d’ye want?” called a feminine voice. It was now hardly daylight, and the person could not distinguish us.
“Excuse me, madam, for disturbing your slumbers; but can you inform a stranger if this is the right road to B.?” asked George, in his most pleasing manner.
“O, yes; keep right on; take the first left hand road to the top o’ the hill; then go on till yer—”
We drove away, not waiting for the rest.
“Do you suppose that old woman is talking there now, with her nightcapped head poked out of the window?” asked George, as we reached the hotel at B.
“For shame!” said I. “Waking up all the people on the road, to inquire the way, with which you were perfectly familiar!”
From B. our route lay along the western bank of the beautiful Penobscot. I need not detain you while I rehearse the delightful scenery en route to Bangor; the variegated and gorgeous splendors of the autumnal leaves; the bending boughs, from the abundant ripened fruit, in colors of red, orange, and yellow on one hand, and on the other the bright, glassy waters of the broad river, dotted here and there by the white sails of boats and vessels lying becalmed in the morning sunshine.
We reached the village of O., and George made inquiry for the residence of Mr. Kingsbury.