Ada is the seat of a Normal School, which is the seat of a large number of other seats. Everybody seemed to be much concerned about the great fistic bout to take place in Carson City that day; the 17th of March. It was "St. Patrick's Day in the morning," with the weather threatening, when I started for Lima. My coat was decorated with cabbage and lettuce leaves and paper imitations of shamrock, and I looked like an animated vegetable garden. Finally it rained; and the road became a mire.
I had just finished a heated argument on the Carson fight, and began to question the story of how St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland, when I suddenly found myself on the ground. And I saw the streak of daylight Mac threatened to kick into my brain.
An old man tried to drive a colt past my strange-looking outfit. I called to him to hold his horse by the bit until I could lead my donkey into the field. But no, he could handle the colt, or any other horse, and I should mind my own business. On the rig came a few yards nearer, when in the twinkling of an eye the colt whirled and upset the buggy with its boastful driver. The man was not hurt; but somewhat dazed. Several farmers soon arrived and were loud in their abuse, saying Mac and I had no right on the highway. It was an effort for the donkey to keep his mouth shut. I replied, civilly, that I was sorry the thing occurred, and explained how I had warned the stranger.
Then I whipped up my unjustly abused partner, and left the old man pulling his beard thoughtfully in the midst of the sympathetic group. All day I strode far in advance of my donkey and led untrained, untamed, and frightened horses past.
Next day being stormy, I devoted the morning to writing my newspaper article and answering some urgent letters; then, failing to arrange for a lecture, I left Lima for Delphos, and tramped fifteen miles in mud and rain without lunch.
We spent Saturday night in Van Wert, and Sunday afternoon resumed the journey in sunshine, people crowding their front windows and doorways to see us leave town. We had not proceeded far when I met an odd trio who had run half a mile across lots to speak to me. One boy had a twisted foot; another, a hand minus five or six fingers; and the third acknowledged that as soon as he caught sight of us he lost his head. Considering their crippled condition, I thought they deserved credit for such activity.
It was eight miles to Convoy. There was no bottom to the road. Seeking a footing along the fence, I ground innumerable land crabs into the mud, while the peepers in the swampy clearings piped their dismal music. At dusk we waded into the village where a curious throng awaited the sensation of the day. And there we spent the night.
The nearer I approached the Indiana border, the more impoverished appeared the farms and their struggling proprietors. Every other farm-house was the primitive log-cabin, and the barns and outbuildings generally tallied with the house.
A thunderstorm awoke me at day-break; the prospect for my day's tramp was most dismal. After walking six miles, I stopped to talk with a party of gypsies, in camp. Presently a black-eyed gypsy girl issued from a heap of bedding under a tree, and inquired if Mac A'Rony was an ostrich. Her heavy jet-black hair fell in a mass over her shoulders, and her sparkling eyes did their level best to enchant me, as she asked to tell my fortune.
"How much?" I asked.