the river, with schooling enough to know what they were about ’lection day.  You didn’t catch any of us voting your new-fangled tickets when he had meant to go up on Whig, for want of knowing the difference, nor visa vussy.  To say nothing of Bob Stokes, and Holt, and me, and another fellow,—­I forget his name,—­being members in good and reg’lar standing, and paying in our five dollars to the parson every quarter, charitable.

Yes, though I say it that shouldn’t say it, we were as fine a looking gang as any in the county, starting off that morning in our red uniform,—­Nancy took a sight of pains with my shirt, sewing it up stout, for fear it should bother me ripping, and I with nobody to take a stitch for me all winter.  The boys went off in good spirits, singing till they were out of sight of town, and waving their caps at their wives and babies standing in the window along on the way.  I didn’t sing.  I thought the wind blew too hard,—­seems to me that was the reason,—­I’m sure there must have been a reason, for I had a voice of my own in those days, and had led the choir perpetual for five years.

We weren’t going in very deep; Dove and Beadle’s lots lay about thirty miles from the nearest house; and a straggling, lonely sort of place that was too, five miles out of the village, with nobody but a dog and a deaf old woman in it.  Sometimes, as I was telling you, we had been in a hundred miles from any human creature but ourselves.

It took us two days to get there though, with the oxen; and the teams were loaded down well, with so many axes and the pork-barrels;—­I don’t know anything like pork for hefting down more than you expect it to, reasonable.  It was one of your ugly gray days, growing dark at four o’clock, with snow in the air, when we hauled up in the lonely place.  The trees were blazed pretty thick, I remember, especially the pines; Dove and Beadle always had that done up prompt in October.  It’s pretty work going in blazing while the sun is warm, and the woods like a great bonfire with the maples.  I used to like it, but your mother wouldn’t hear of it when she could help herself, it kept me away so long.

It’s queer, Johnny, how we do remember things that ain’t of no account; but I remember, as plainly as if it were yesterday morning, just how everything looked that night, when the teams came up, one by one, and we went to work spry to get to rights before the sun went down.

There were three shanties,—­they don’t often have more than two or three in one place,—­they were empty, and the snow had drifted in; Bob Stokes’s oxen were fagged out with their heads hanging down, and the horses were whinnying for their supper.  Holt had one of his great brush-fires going,—­there was nobody like Holt for making fires,—­and the boys were hurrying round in their red shirts, shouting at the oxen, and singing a little, some of them low, under their breath, to keep their spirits up.  There was snow as far as you could see,—­down the cart-path, and all around, and away into the woods; and there was snow in the sky now, setting in for a regular nor’easter.  The trees stood up straight all around without any leaves, and under the bushes it was as black as pitch.