“You better believe I will.  Two more hedge hogs last night, but Samba let ’em alone.”

Sambo had got his mouth sored by hedge hogs some time before and had learned better than to have any fuss with them.

When they set out in the morning Samson was wont to say to the little lad, who generally sat beside him:  “Well, my boy, what’s the good word this morning?” Whereupon Joe would say, parrot like: 

“God help us all and make His face to shine upon us.”

“Well said!” his father would answer, and so the day’s journey began.

Often, near its end, they came to some lonely farmhouse.  Always Samson would stop and go to the door to ask about the roads, followed by little Joe and Betsey with secret hopes.  One of these hopes was related to cookies and maple sugar and buttered bread and had been cherished since an hour of good fortune early in the trip and encouraged by sundry good-hearted women along the road.  Another was the hope of seeing a baby—­mainly, it should be said, the hope of Betsey.  Joe’s interest was merely an echo of hers.  He regarded babies with an open mind, as it were, for the opinions of his sister still had some weight with him, she being a year and a half older than he, but babies invariably disappointed him, their capabilities being so restricted.  To be sure, they could make quite a noise, and the painter was said to imitate it, but since Joe had learned that they couldn’t bite he had begun to lose respect for them.  Still, not knowing what might happen, he always took a look at every baby.

The children were lifted out of the wagon to stretch their legs at sloughs and houses.  They were sure to be close behind the legs of their father when he stood at a stranger’s door.  Then, the night being near, they were always invited to put their horses in the barn and tarry until next morning.  This was due in part to the kindly look and voice of Samson, but mostly to the wistful faces of the little children—­a fact unsuspected by their parents.  What motherly heart could resist the silent appeal of children’s faces or fail to understand it?  Those were memorable nights for Sarah and Joe and Betsey.  In a letter to her brother the woman said: 

“You don’t know how good it seemed to see a woman and talk to her, and we talked and talked until midnight, after all the rest were asleep.  She let me hold the baby in my lap until it was put to bed.  How good it felt to have a little warm body in my arms again and feel it breathing!  In all my life I never saw a prettier baby.  It felt good to be in a real house and sleep in a soft, warm bed and to eat jelly and cookies and fresh meat and potatoes and bread and butter.  Samson played for them and kept them laughing with his stories until bedtime.  They wouldn’t take a cent and gave us a dozen eggs in a basket and a piece of venison when we went away.  Their name is Sanford and I have promised to write to them.  They are good Christian folks and they say that maybe they will join us in the land of plenty if we find it all we expect.”