The county clerk's itinerary had ended here, and William Townsend
proved to be less ubiquitous than we had been led to expect. Thus it
was that night came down upon us one evening before we had reached a
place of shelter--suddenly, in the thick scrub, not lingeringly, as in
the long forest glades of the lake country. For an hour we pushed on,
trusting now to Barney's sagacity, now to the pioneering abilities of
Artist and Scribe, who marched in the van. Fireflies flitted about,
their unusual brilliancy often cheating us into the fond hope that
shelter was at hand. The ignes-fatui in the valley below often added to
the deception, and after many disappointments we were about to spread
our blankets upon the earth and prepare for a night's rest _al fresco_
when we heard a distant cow-call. Clear and melodious as the far-off
"Ranz des Vaches" it broke upon the stillness, gladdening all our
hearts. How we answered it, how we hastened over logs and through
thickets in the direction of answering voices and glancing lights--no
ignes-fatui now--how we were met halfway by an entire family whom we
had aroused, and with what astonishment we heard ourselves addressed by
name,--can better be imagined than described.
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