“Gee up, Dobbin! Magnus, why don’t you make them gee up? We shall not make our thirty miles to-day.”
Magnus took the reins from her hands, flourished the whip, and they set off in earnest, unmindful of a cynical old negro by the roadside, who, watching them as he bagged his snow-birds from the trap, said:
“The cussed infunnally young fools! I s’pose dey tink it always gwine be jes’ so! Gor A’mighty help ’em! Aar, Lor’! der troubles is all afore ’em, like young bearses!”
And they went on, happy, hopeful, confident, and justly confident; recalling the past with its childish pleasures, planning for the future, pointing out to each other familiar places in the forest, and spots associated with some childish reminiscence—now it was the very tree where Magnus first took her to gather chestnuts; now the very dell where he set traps to catch snow-birds for her; now the thicket where the wild rose-bushes bore so full in spring; now the glade that was red with strawberries in May; and so, talking and laughing, hoping and believing, billing and cooing, our pair of turtledoves pursued their Westerly flight.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DEEP DELL—COUNTRY TAVERN.
Here rustic statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
—Goldsmith.
It was far into the night when they reached Deep Dell, and put up at the large log tavern that fulfilled the manifold duties of country store, post office, smithy, meetinghouse, and hotel, and was consequently a place of great bustle, if not business. Here our emigrant pair, by special favor, were accommodated with the landlady’s own parlor, and promised a private supper. The tavern was full of people, for this was mail day, and the post-boy from Huttontown was expected every moment.
Magnus went out to put his wagon under cover, and to feed and stable his mules.