I am a traveller.  In my mind I have gone the world over, and those wanderings have been unhampered by the limitations of mere time, for I know my India of the First Century as well as that of the Twentieth, and the China of Confucius is as real to me as that of Kwang Su.  Without stirring from my little porch down here in the valley I have pierced the African jungles and surveyed the Arctic ice-floes.  Often the mountains call me to come again, to climb them, to see the real world beyond, to live in it, to be of it, but I am a prisoner.  They called to me as a boy, when wandering over the hills, I looked away to them, and over them, into the mysterious blue, picturing my India and my China, my England and my Russia in a geographical jumble that began just beyond the horizon.

Then I was a prisoner in the dungeons of Youth and my mother was my jailer.  The day came when I was free, and forth I went full of hope, twenty-three years old by the family Bible, with a strong, agile body and a homely face.  I went as a soldier.  For months I saw what is called the world; I had glimpses of cities; I slept beneath the palms; I crossed a sea and touched the tropics.  Marching beneath a blazing sun, huddling from the storm in the scant shelter of the tent, my spirits were always keyed to the highest by the thought that I was seeing life and that these adventures were but a fore-taste of those to come.  But one day when we marched beneath the blazing sun, we met a storm and found no shelter.  We charged through a hail of steel.  They took me to the sea on a stretcher, and by and by they shipped me home.  Then it was that I was a hero—­when I came again to Black Log—­what was left of me.

My people were very kind.  They sent Henry Holmes’s double phaeton to the county town to meet my train, and as I stumbled from the car, being new to my crutches, I fell into the arms of a reception committee.  Tim was there.  And my little brother fought the others off and picked me up and carried me, as I had carried him in the old days when he was a toddling youngster and I a sturdy boy.  But he was six feet two now and I had wasted to a shadow.  Perry Thomas had a speech prepared.  He is our orator, our prize debater, our township statesman, and his frock-coat tightly buttoned across his chest, his unusually high and stiffly starched collar, his repeated coughing as he hovered on the outskirts of the crowd, told me plainly that he had an address to make.  Henry Holmes, indeed, asked me to stand still just one minute, and I divined instantly that he was working in the interest of oratory; but Tim spoiled it all by running off with me and tossing me into the phaeton.

So in the state-coach of Black Log, drawn by Isaac Bolum’s lemon-colored mules, with the committee rattling along behind in a spring wagon, politely taking our dust, I came home once more, over the mountains, into the valley.

Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever make another journey as long as that one.  Sometimes I have ventured as far as the gap, and peeped into the broad open country, and caught the rumble of the trains down by the river.  There is one of the world’s highways, but the toll is great, and a crippled soldier with a scanty pension and a pittance from his school is wiser to keep to the ways he knows.