f the hills
till you come to the Winslow Woods; leave them to the left, and pass by Mr.
Roby's farm, at Runton--you'll know Mr. Roby?'

'Not I,' replied Mr. Sponge, hoisting himself into the saddle, and holding
out a hand to take leave of his host.

'Good night, sir; good night!' exclaimed Mr. Peastraw, shaking it; 'and
have the goodness to tell Mr. Crowdey from me that the next time he comes
here a bush-rangin', I'll thank him to shut the gates after him. He set all
my young stock wrong the last time he was here.'

'I will,' replied Mr. Sponge, riding off.

Mr. Peastraw's directions were well calculated to confuse a clearer head
than Mr. Sponge then carried; and the reader will not be surprised to learn
that, long before he reached the Winslow Woods, he was regularly
bewildered. Indeed, there is no surer way of losing oneself than trying to
follow a long train of directions in a strange country. It is far better
to establish one's own landmarks, and make for them as the natural course
of the country seems to direct. Our forefathers had a wonderful knack of
getting to points with as little circumlocution as possible. Mr. Sponge,
however, knew no points, and was quite at sea; indeed, even if he had, they
would have been of little use, for a fitful and frequently obscured moon
threw such bewildering lights and shades around, that a native would have
had some difficulty in recognizing the country. The frost grew more
intense, the stars shone clear and bright, and the cold took our friend by
the nape of the neck, shooting across his shoulder-blades and right down
his back. Mr. Sponge wished and wished he was anywhere but where he
was--flattening his nose against the coffee-room window of the Bantam,
tooling in a hansom as hard as he could go, squaring along Oxford Street
criticizing horses--nay, he wouldn't care to be undergoing Gustavus James
himself--anything, rather than rambling about a strange country in a cold
winter's night, with nothing but the hooting of owls and the occasional
bark of shepherds' dogs to enliven his solitude. The houses were few and
far between. The lights in the cottages had long been extinguished, and the
occupiers of such of the farmhouses as would come to his knocks were gruff
in their answers, and short in their directions. At length, after riding,
and riding, and riding, more with a view of keeping himself awake than in
the expectation of finding his way, just as he was preparing to arouse