Dark was coming on and a drizzly rain was falling.  It was the spring of the year, the day had been warm and the kitchen window was open.  I stole up to the open window.  The woman’s back was toward me.  I removed the plug of sassafras leaves and hurled the hornet’s nest so that it landed under the hag’s skirts.

I watched the proceedings for one short moment, and then, as it was getting late, I concluded I had better be off for St. Louis.  So I went away from there at the best gait I could command.

I could hear my arch-enemy screaming, and it was music to my ears that even thrills me yet, sometimes.  It was a better supper than she would have given me.

I saw the negroes running from the quarters, and elsewhere, toward the kitchen, and I must beg the reader to endeavor to imagine the scene in that culinary department, as I am unable to describe it, not having waited to see it out.

But I slid for the barn, secured my bundle and started for the ancient city far away.

All night, on foot and alone, I trudged the turnpike that ran through Nashville.  I arrived in that city about daylight, tired and hungry, but was too timid to stop for something to eat, notwithstanding I had my four dollars safe in my pocket, and had not eaten since noon, the day before.

I plodded along through the town and crossed the Cumberland river on a ferry-boat, and then pulled out in a northerly direction for about an hour, when I came to a farm-house.  In the road in front of the house I met the proprietor who was going from his garden, opposite the house, to his breakfast.

He waited until I came up, and as I was about to pass on, he said:  “Hello! my boy, where are you going so early this morning?”

I told him I was on my way to St. Louis.

“St. Louis?” he said.  “I never heard of that place before.  Where is it?”

I told him I thought it was in Missouri, but was not certain.

“Are you going all the way on foot, and alone?”

I answered that I was, and that I had no other way to go.  With that I started on.

“Hold on,” he said.  “If you are going to walk that long way you had better come in and have some breakfast.”

You may rest assured that I did not wait for a second invitation, for about that time I was as hungry as I had ever been in my life.

While we were eating breakfast the farmer turned to his oldest daughter and said: 

“Martha, where is St. Louis?”

She told him it was in Missouri, and one of the largest towns in the South or West.  “Our geography tells lots about it,” she said.

I thought this was about the best meal I had ever eaten in my life, and after it was over I offered to pay for it, but the kind-hearted old man refused to take anything, saying:  “Keep your money, my boy.  You may need it before you get back.  And on your return, stop and stay with me all night, and tell us all about St. Louis.”