I made my way through the drive between the black shadows of the forest, and came at length to the big gates at the entrance, locked for the night.A strange thought of their futility struck me as I climbed the rail fence beside them, and pushed on into the main road, the mud sucking under my shoes as I went.As I try now to cast my memory back I can recall no fear, only a vast sense of loneliness, and the very song of it seemed to be sung in never ending refrain by the insects of the night.

I had been alone in the mountains before.I have crossed great strips of wilderness since, but always there was love to go back to.Then I was leaving the only being in the world that remained to me.

I must have walked two hours or more before I came to the mire of a cross-road, and there I stood in a quandary of doubt as to which side led to Charlestown.

As I lingered a light began to tremble in the heavens.

A cock crew in the distance.I sat down on a fallen log to rest.But presently, as the light grew, I heard shouts which drew nearer and deeper and brought me to my feet in an uncertainty of expectation.Next came the rattling of chains, the scramble of hoofs in the mire, and here was a wagon with a big canvas cover.Beside the straining horses was a great, burly man with a red beard, cracking his long whip, and calling to the horses in a strange tongue.He stopped still beside his panting animals when he saw me, his high boots sunk in the mud.

``Gut morning, poy,'' he said, wiping his red face with his sleeve; ``what you do here?''

``I am going to Charlestown,'' I answered.

``Ach!'' he cried, ``dot is pad.Mein poy, he run avay.You are ein gut poy, I know.I vill pay ein gut price to help me vit mein wagon--ja.''

``Where are you going?'' I demanded, with a sudden wavering.

``Up country--pack country.You know der Proad River--yes?''

No, I did not.But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life, with its freedom and self-reliance, and a hatred for this steaming country of heat and violent storms, and artificiality and pomp.And I had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world.

``What will you give me?'' I asked.

At that he put his finger to his nose.

``Thruppence py the day.''

I shook my head.He looked at me queerly.

``How old you pe,--twelve, yes?''

Now I had no notion of telling him.So I said: ``Is this the Charlestown road?''

``Fourpence!'' he cried, ``dot is riches.''

``I will go for sixpence,'' I answered.

``Mein Gott!'' he cried, ``sixpence.Dot is robbery.''

But seeing me obdurate, he added: ``I vill give it, because ein poy I must have.Vat is your name,--Tavid?

You are ein sharp poy, Tavid.''

And so I went with him.

In writing a biography, the relative value of days and years should hold.There are days which count in space for years, and years for days.I spent the time on the whole happily with this Dutchman, whose name was Hans Koppel.He talked merrily save when he spoke of the war against England, and then contemptuously, for he was a bitter English partisan.And in contrast to this he would dwell for hours on a king he called Friedrich der Grosse, and a war he waged that was a war; and how this mighty king had fought a mighty queen at Rossbach and Leuthen in his own country,--battles that were battles.

``And you were there, Hans?'' I asked him once.

``Ja,'' he said, ``but I did not stay.''

``You ran away?''

``Ja,'' Hans would answer, laughing, ``run avay.Ilove peace, Tavid.Dot is vy I come here, and now,''

bitterly, ``and now ve haf var again once.''

I would say nothing; but I must have looked my disapproval, for he went on to explain that in Saxe-Gotha, where he was born, men were made to fight whether they would or no; and they were stolen from their wives at night by soldiers of the great king, or lured away by fair promises.

Travelling with incredible slowness, in due time we came to a county called Orangeburg, where all were Dutchmen like Hans, and very few spoke English.And they all thought like Hans, and loved peace, and hated the Congress.On Sundays, as we lay over at the taverns, these would be filled with a rollicking crowd of fiddlers and dancers, quaintly dressed, the women bringing their children and babies.At such times Hans would be drunk, and I would have to feed the tired horses and mount watch over the cargo.I had many adventures, but none worth the telling here.And at length we came to Hans's farm, in a prettily rolling country on the Broad River.

Hans's wife spoke no English at all, nor did the brood of children running about the house.I had small fancy for staying in such a place, and so Hans paid me two crowns for my three weeks' service; I think, with real regret, for labor was scarce in those parts, and though I was young, I knew how to work.And I could at least have guided his plough in the furrow and cared for his cattle.

It was the first money I had earned in my life, and a prouder day than many I have had since.

For the convenience of travellers passing that way, Hans kept a tavern,--if it could have been dignified by such a name.It was in truth merely a log house with shakedowns, and stood across the rude road from his log farmhouse.And he gave me leave to sleep there and to work for my board until I cared to leave.It so chanced that on the second day after my arrival a pack-train came along, guided by a nettlesome old man and a strong, black-haired lass of sixteen or thereabouts.The old man, whose name was Ripley, wore a nut-brown hunting shirt trimmed with red cotton; and he had no sooner slipped the packs from his horses than he began to rail at Hans, who stood looking on.

``You damned Dutchmen be all Tories, and worse,'' he cried; ``you stay here and till your farms while our boys are off in the hill towns fighting Cherokees.I wish the devils had every one of your fat sculps.Polly Ann, water the nags.''