John and I were too much gratified to question Willis's superior wisdom and followed after him, intent only on getting home to dinner. The storm was now driving thick and fast. We could not see a hundred yards ahead, but we seemed to be on level ground, such as I had never seen in Neighbor Wilbur's pasture. Soon we came to another large brook.
"There's no brook in Wilbur's pasture!" exclaimed John, stopping short.
"I don't care!" cried Willis. "This must be Wilbur's pasture!" He crossed the brook.
"Of course it is!" he shouted back to us, "for there's Wilbur's barn—right ahead of us!"
We hastened after Willis, plodding through dry, snowy grass, and came to a barn about which the storm eddied in snowy gusts.
"But where's Wilbur's house?" asked John.
We looked round in perplexity. There was no house in sight; but here was a barn, and the door was ajar. We went in. It was empty of hay or cattle. The barn looked curiously familiar; but it was not till we perceived the torn newspapers and the pieces of split oak brace on the floor that the full truth dawned on us. It was the old Plancher barn!
We had run five miles through the woods, only to reach the place from which we had started.
John looked at me, and I looked at Willis. A sense of utter bewilderment fell on us. John and I did not even think to revile Willis. In fact, we were terrified. All hope of dinner, or of reaching home at all that night, deserted us. The storm was increasing; the late November day was at an end.
For a while we scarcely spoke. John Eastman, who was the youngest, began to cry. The old barn creaked dismally as each gust of wind racked it, and loose boards rattled and banged. No created place can be more dreary than an old and empty barn.