Uncle fitted out with two good horses and a wagon; goods were packed in a large box made to fit, and under the wagon seat was the commissary chest for food and bedding for daily use, all snugly arranged.  Father had, shortly before, bought a fine Morgan mare and a light wagon which served as a family carriage, having wooden axles and a seat arranged on wooden springs, and they finally decided they would let me take the horse and wagon and go on with uncle, and father and mother would come by water, either by way of the St. Lawrence river and the lakes or by way of the new canal recently built, which would take them as far as Buffalo.

So they loaded up the little wagon with some of the mentioned things and articles in the house, among which I remember a fine brass kettle, considered almost indispensable in housekeeping.  There was a good lot of bedding and blankets, and a quilt nicely folded was placed on the spring seat as a cushion.

As may be imagined I was the object of a great deal of attention about this time, for a boy not yet ten years old just setting out into a region almost unknown was a little unusual.  When I was ready they all gathered round to say good bye and my good mother seemed most concerned.  She said—­“Now you must be a good boy till we come in the spring.  Mind uncle and aunt and take good care of the horse, and remember us.  May God protect you.”  She embraced me and kissed me and held me till she was exhausted.  Then they lifted me up into the spring seat, put the lines in my hand and handed me my little whip with a leather strip for a lash.  Just at the last moment father handed me a purse containing about a dollar, all in copper cents—­pennies we called them then.  Uncle had started on they had kept me so long, but I started up and they all followed me along the road for a mile or so before we finally separated and they turned back.  They waved hats and handkerchiefs till out of sight as they returned, and I wondered if we should ever meet again.

I was up with uncle very soon and we rolled down through St. Albans and took our road southerly along in sight of Lake Champlain.  Uncle and aunt often looked back to talk to me, “See what a nice cornfield!” or, “What nice apples on those trees,” seeming to think they must do all they could to cheer me up, that I might not think too much of the playmates and home I was leaving behind.

I had never driven very far before, but I found the horse knew more than I did how to get around the big stones and stumps that were found in the road, so that as long as I held the lines and the whip in hand I was an excellent driver.

We had made plans and preparations to board ourselves on the journey.  We always stopped at the farm houses over night, and they were so hospitable that they gave us all we wanted free.  Our supper was generally of bread and milk, the latter always furnished gratuitously, and I do not recollect that we were ever turned away from any house where we asked shelter.  There were no hotels, or taverns as they called them, outside of the towns.