Landmarks were lost in the velvet dark; new features sprang into
prominence. Were it not for the wagon trail, Bob felt that in this
strange, enchanted, unfamiliar land he might easily have become lost.
His horse plodded mechanically on. One by one he passed the homely
roadside landmarks, exempt from the necromancies of the moon--the pile
of old cedar posts, split heaven knows when, by heaven knows whom, and
thriftlessly abandoned; the water trough, with the brook singing by; the
S turn by the great boulders; the narrow defile of the Devil's
Grade--and then, still under the spell of the night, Bob surmounted the
ridge to look out over the pine-clad plateau slumbering dead-still under
the soft radiance of the moon.
He rode the remaining distance to headquarters at a brisker pace. As he
approached the little meadow, and the group of buildings dark and
silent, he raised joyously the wild hallo of the late-comer with mail.
Immediately lights were struck. A moment later, by the glimmer of a
lantern, he was distributing the coveted papers, letters and magazines
to the half-dressed group that surrounded him.
Pages:
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809