"Where is the man who is going straight ahead to Kentucky?"
"Here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of the window, to see what was the matter.
"Well, here is a paper which I wish you to carry to my brother; and if you stop long enough where he is, you must go and see him, and tell him you saw me too."
"Well done, my lad! you are a keen one. I'll do your bidding--but don't you never run under stage-horses again."
He took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip; and the horses started as the little boy leaped upon the bank, shouting, "Hurra for Yankee Land and old Kentucky!"
In a rude log hut of Western Kentucky was seated an animated and intelligent-looking young man. A bright moon was silvering the forest-tops, which were almost the only prospect from his window; but in that beauteous light the rough clearing around seemed changed to fairy land; and even his rude domicile partook of the transient renovation. His lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look as though it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness.
"I feel as though I could write poetry now," said Alfred to himself. "Let me see--'The Spirit's Call to the Absent,' or something like that; but if I should strike my light, and really get pens, ink, and paper, it would all evaporate, vanish, abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o. p. h. Ah, yes! the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection, which would find some other language than simple prose, can never depart.
"How I wish I could see them all! There is not a codger in my native town--not a crusty fusty old bachelor--not an envious tattling old maid--not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but I could welcome with an embrace. But if I could only see my father, or Jimmy, or Lina, dear girl! how much better I should feel! It would make me ten years younger, to have a chat with Lina; and, to tell the truth, I should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. I'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. But there! it's no use to talk.
"An evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's grave, were I at home. Oh! if she were but alive--if I could only know that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for me--I might be better, as well as happier. Methinks it must be a blessed thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as I have mine--and they do. It cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. Truly must it be a blessed thing to be a mother!"