ters were, in rude tracing:

REDBUD.

And to these Verty had added, with melancholy and listless smiles, the
further letters:

GOING TO--

Unfortunately he was compelled to leave the remainder of the sentence
unwritten.

CHAPTER V.

WINCHESTER.

Having followed the Indian boy from Apple Orchard to his lodge in the
wilderness, and shown how he passed many of his hours in the hills, it
is proper now that we should mount--in a figurative and metaphorical
sense--behind Mr. Rushton, and see whither that gentleman also bends
his steps. We shall thus arrive at the real theatre of our brief
history--we mean at the old town of Winchester,

Every body knows, or ought to know, all about Winchester. It is not a
borough of yesterday, where the hum of commerce and the echo of the
pioneer's axe mingle together, as in many of our great western cities
of the Arabian Nights:--Winchester has recollections about it, and
holds to the past--to its Indian combats, and strange experiences
of clashing arms, and border revelries, and various scenes of wild
frontier life, which live for us now only in the chronicles;--to
its memories of Colonel Washington, the noble young soldier, who
afterwards became, as we all have heard, so distinguished upon a
larger field;--to Thomas Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, who came
there often when the deer and the wolves of his vast possessions
would permit him--and to Daniel Morgan, who emptied many fair cups on
Loudoun-street, and one day passed, with trumpets sounding, going
to Quebec; again on his way to debate questions of importance with
Tarleton, at the Cowpens--lastly, to crush the Tory rising on Lost
River, about the time when "it pleased heaven so to order things,
that the large army of Cornwallis should be entrapped and captured at
Yorktown, in Virginia," as the chronicles inform us. All these men of
the past has Winchester looked upon, and many more--on strange, wild
pictures, and on many histories. For you walk on history there and
drink the chronicle:--Washington's old fort is crumbling, but still
visible;--Morgan, the strong soldier, sleeps there, after all his
storms;--and grim, eccentric Fairfax lies where he fell, on hearing of
the Yorktown ending.

When we enter the town with Mr. Rushton, these men are elsewhere, it
is true; but none the less present. They are there forever.

The lawyer's office was on Loudoun-street, and cantering briskly along
the rough highway past the