Sarah and Samson had been raised on adjoining farms just out of the village.  He had had little schooling, but his mind was active and well inclined.  Sarah had prosperous relatives in Boston and had had the advantage of a year’s schooling in that city.  She was a comely girl of a taste and refinement unusual in the place and time of her birth.  Many well favored youths had sought her hand, but, better than others, she liked the big, masterful, good-natured, humorous Samson, crude as he was.  Naturally in her hands his timber had undergone some planing and smoothing and his thought had been gently led into new and pleasant ways.  Sarah’s Uncle Rogers in Boston had kept them supplied with some of the best books and magazines of the time.  These they had read aloud with keen enjoyment.  Moreover, they remembered what they read and cherished and thought about it.

Let us take a look at them as they slowly leave the village of their birth.  The wagon is covered with tent cloth drawn over hickory arches.  They are sitting on a seat overlooking the oxen in the wagon front.  Tears are streaming down the face of the woman.  The man’s head is bent.  His elbows are resting on his knees; the hickory handle of his ox whip lies across his lap, the lash at his feet.  He seems to be looking down at his boots, into the tops of which his trousers have been folded.  He is a rugged, blond, bearded man with kindly blue eyes and a rather prominent nose.  There is a striking expression of power in the head and shoulders of Samson Traylor.  The breadth of his back, the size of his wrists and hands, the color of his face betoken a man of great strength.  This thoughtful, sorrowful attitude is the only evidence of emotion which he betrays.  In a few minutes he begins to whistle a lively tune.

The boy Josiah—­familiarly called Joe—­sits beside his mother.  He is a slender, sweet-faced lad.  He is looking up wistfully at his mother.  The little girl Betsey sits between him and her father.  That evening they stopped at the house of an old friend some miles up the dusty road to the north.  “Here we are—­goin’ west,” Samson shouted to the man at the door-step.

He alighted and helped his family out of the wagon.  “You go right in—­I’ll take care o’ the oxen,” said the man.

Samson started for the house with the girl under one arm and the boy under the other.  A pleasant-faced woman greeted them with a hearty welcome at the door.

“You poor man!  Come right in,” she said.

“Poor!  I’m the richest man in the world,” said he.  “Look at the gold on that girl’s head—­curly, fine gold, too—­the best there is.  She’s Betsey—­my little toy woman—­half past seven years old—­blue eyes—­helps her mother get tired every day.  Here’s my toy man Josiah—­yes, brown hair and brown eyes like Sarah—­heart o’ gold—­helps his mother, too—­six times one year old.”

“What pretty faces!” said the woman as she stooped and kissed them.