There were several other passengers making the trip from Syracuse by stage that day, but Roger and his uncle were the only ones on the outside. The big wagon rolled along, first on the asphalt streets, under tall elm and maple trees that lined the thoroughfares, where the houses were so close together that they reminded the boy of New York. Then the residences became more scattered, and farther and farther apart, as the suburbs were reached.
During the early part of the journey Porter was too busy guiding his team of horses in and out among other vehicles to do much talking. Mr. Kimball was engaged in looking over an account book, and making notes of his recent purchases, with the amounts they cost, and so was too much occupied to talk. Thus Roger was left to himself for a while. He was much interested in all that he saw, though of course the city sights were almost like those of New York, except there was not the same bustle and excitement, nor such big, towering buildings.
But when he came into the pretty suburbs it was different. The air was pure and fresh, and the wind was just cool enough to be delightful that October afternoon. Soon the horses were jogging along, the reins flapping loose on their broad backs. Mr. Kimball, putting up his account book, turned to Porter, and asked:
"How's everything in Cardiff?"
"Oh, so-so," replied Mr. Amidown. "Ain't changed much sence ye come out yist'day."
"No, I don't calalate it has hed much chanst," agreed Mr. Kimball.
Then the two men began to talk of crops, of cows and horses, of the farm of this one and the garden of that one, the grape and the honey outlook, until Roger wondered how they could remember so many different names and the kinds of things that grew.
Finally Mr. Kimball bethought himself that his nephew might be lonesome, with no one to talk to, so he turned his attention to the boy, and told him of the country through which they were passing. He showed him where Enos Jones had a good field of wheat, and where Nathan Parks was expecting to gather in a fine yield of corn, and so on, until the city boy felt some of the importance of farming, and how much the people of this country depend on it.
The stage rumbled on, up hill and down dale, along the twelve miles. About five o'clock they came within sight of the white-spired church of Cardiff, and it was not long before they reached the outskirts of the village. The big vehicle stopped at the post-office. Porter threw off a bag of mail, called to the horses to resume their pulling again, and, five minutes later he drew up in front of a comfortable farmhouse, in the yard of which stood a pleasant-faced woman and a boy about Roger's age.