w crossing narrow
"branches" sunk deep in impenetrable "hummocks" of close-crowded oak
and ash and maple, thick-matted with vines and undergrowth; now pausing
to gather orchis and pitcher-plants and sun-kisses and andromeda; now
fording the broad bend of Peter's Creek where it flows, sapphire in the
sunshine, out from the moss-draped live-oaks between high banks of red
and yellow clays and soft gray sand, to lose itself in a tangle of
flowering shrubs; now losing and finding our way among the intricate
cross-roads that lead by Bradley's Creek and Darbin Savage's tramway
and the "new-blazed road" of the county clerk's itinerary. Suddenly the
sky grew dark: thunder began to roll, and--were we in the right road?
It seemed suspiciously well travelled, for now we called to mind that
Middleburg was nigh at hand, and thither we had been warned _not_ to
go.

There was a house in the distance, the second we had seen since leaving
the "settle_ments_" near the river. And there we learned that we were
right and wrong: it _was_ the Middleburg road. After receiving sundry
lucid directions respecting a "blind road" and an "old field," we
turned away. How dark it was growing! how weirdly soughed the wind
among the pine tops! how bodingly the thunder growled afar! There came
a great slow drop: another, and suddenly, with swiftly-rushing sound,
the rain was upon us, drenching us all at once before waterproofs and
umbrellas could be made available.

[Illustration: "NOT ALL THE BLANDISHMENTS OF THE SMALL BOY AVAILED."]

It was then that Barney showed the greatness of his soul. In the
confusion of the moment we had run afoul of a stout young oak, which
obstinately menaced the integrity of our axle. It was only possible to
back out of the predicament, but Barney scorned the thought of retreat.
Not all the blandishments of the Small Boy, whether brought to bear in
the form of entreaties, remonstrances, jerks or threats, availed:
Barney stood unmoved, and the hatchet was our only resource. How that
mule's eye twinkled as from time to time he cast a backward glance upon
the Small Boy wrestling with a dull hatchet and a sturdy young
scrub-oak under the pelting rain, amid lightning-flash and
thunder-peal, needs a more graphic pen than mine to describe. A
better-drenched biped than climbed into the wagon at the close of this
episode, or a more thoroughly-satisfied quadruped than jogged along
before him, it would be difficult to find.

As sudd