He was emigrating, with all his goods and gods, to that wonderfully winning region, in the estimation of this people, the valley of the Mississippi.  The emigrant was a stout, burly, bluff old fellow, with full round cheeks, a quick, twinkling eye, and limbs rather Herculean than human.  He might have been fifty-five years or so; and his two sons, one of them a man grown, the other a tall and goodly youth of eighteen, promised well to be just such vigorous and healthy-looking personages as their father.  The old woman, by whom we mean—­in the manner of speech common to the same class and region—­to indicate the spouse of the wayfarer, and mother of the two youths, was busied about the fire, boiling a pot of coffee, and preparing the family repast for the night.  A somewhat late hour for supper and such employment, thought our wanderer; but the difficulty soon explained itself in the condition of their wagon, and the conversation which ensued among the travellers.  There was yet another personage in the assembly, who must be left to introduce himself to the reader.

The force of the traveller—­for such is the term by which the number of his slaves are understood—­was small, consisting of some six workers, and three or four little negro children asleep under the wagon.  The workers were occupied at a little distance, in replacing boxes, beds, and some household trumpery, which had been taken out of the wagon, to enable them to effect its release from the slough in which it had cast one of its wheels, and broken its axle, and the restoration of which had made their supper so late in the night.  The heavier difficulties of their labor had been got over, and with limbs warmed and chafed by the extra exercise they had undergone, the whites had thrown themselves under a tree, at a little distance from the fire at which the supper was in preparation, while a few pine torches, thrown together, gave them sufficient light to read and remark the several countenances of their group.

“Well, by dogs, we’ve had a tough ’bout of it, boys; and, hark’ye, strannger, gi’ us your hand.  I don’t know what we should have done without you, for I never seed man handle a little poleaxe as you did that same affair of your’n.  You must have spent, I reckon, a pretty smart time at the use of it, now, didn’t ye?”

To this speech of the farmer, a ready reply was given by the stranger, in the identical voice and language of our old acquaintance, the pedler, Jared Bunce, of whom, and of whose stock in trade, the reader will probably have some recollection.

“Well, now, I guess, friend, you an’t far wide of your reckoning.  I’ve been a matter of some fifteen or twenty years knocking about, off and on, in one way or another, with this same instrument, and pretty’s the service now, I tell ye, that it’s done me in that bit of time.”

“No doubt, no doubt; but what’s your trade, if I may be so bold, that made you larn the use of it so nicely?”