Is half so dear to me."
But I struck the key note of his heart when I sang, "There's a light in the window for thee," in which he joined at first, but stopped, saying:
"I can't sing that; 'twas the last song I sung with my brothers and sisters the night before I left my Kentucky home, nine years ago, and I don't think I have tried to sing it since."
All along the valley faint lights glimmered from lonely little homes. I thought every cottager should have an Alpine horn, and as the sun goes down, a "good night" shouted from east to west along the valley, until it echoed from bluff to bluff.
But the longest journey must have an end, and at last we halted at Mr. A.'s door, too late for me to go farther. But was off early in the morning on horseback, with Zeke Butterbaugh, who was herding for Mr. A., to take his mother by surprise, and breakfast with her.
Well, reader, I would not ask anyone, even my worst enemy, to go with me on that morning ride.
Rough?
There now, don't say anything more about it. It is good to forget some things; I can feel the top of my head flying off yet with every jolt, as that horse tried to trot—perhaps it was my poke hat that was coming off. If the poor animal had had a shoe on, I would have quoted Mark Twain, hung my hat on its ear and looked for a nail in its foot.
When we reached Mrs. B.'s home, we found it deserted, and we had to go three miles farther on. Six miles before breakfast.
"Now, Zeke, we will go direct; take straight across and I will follow: mind, we don't want to be going round many corners."