In the first lighted house there was a woman who
would not open to me....
Modestine was led away by a layman to the stables, and
I and my pack were received into our Lady of the Snows.
--_Travels with a Donkey._
Having been directed on the road to Pittsford, a town seven miles
beyond, we tramped wearily on, battling with the elements as best
we could until midnight, when almost numb with cold, I resolved to
seek refuge in a small hamlet we were nearing, called Bushnell
Basin. I was told it contained a tavern which would accommodate
us, in an emergency. But it was so dark when we reached Bushnell
that I could not see the Basin. Its dozen dusky-looking shanties
seemed to be deserted, and when I saw a boy crossing the road I
was too surprised to hail him. Mac brayed, and the lad stopped. I
asked him where the hotel was. He directed me toward a dim light,
and disappeared. We pushed on, but the light was extinguished
before we could reach the house. I called loudly to the landlord
to let me in; I rapped on the door desperately, and repeated my
yells. A dog in the house barked savagely; then Mac began to bray,
and I wondered that nobody entered a protest against such a
disturbance. At length, a squeaky female voice called from an
upstairs window:
"Who be ye?"
"A man," I answered, civilly.
"What kind of a man?"
"A gentleman," I said, with emphasis.
"What's that thing yer got with ye?"
I was afraid she'd catch cold in the opened window, if she was in
her nightdress, but I replied in a voice of a siren, "A jackass."
"Can't let ye in--no room for shows here--next town," fell the
frozen words on my benumbed ears.
Then the woman sneezed, and closed the window. Mac A'Rony seemed
to comprehend the situation, but offered no remedy. I would have
covered the three miles to Pittsford, but the donkey was fagged
out, and could barely drag his legs. Where were we to find shelter
at such a time and place?
Retracing our steps a short distance, I caught the sound of
pounding, as of a hammer. Soon I heard the sawing of a board, and
the saw's enraged voice when it struck a knot. Saved! I thought,
as I walked in the direction whence the sound emanated. The snow
lay ten inches deep; old Boreas shook the trees, and whistled
round the quivering hovels; and I was so chilled and vexed that,
if another person had dared to ask me what kind of a man I was, I
would have measured somebody for a coffin.
Finally, I came to the house, through whose window I discerned a
lighted candle in a back room. I rapped on the door. The sawing
continued; so did my rapping. Then the sawing ceased, and the door
was opened by a swarthy, heavy bearded man who extended me a
kindly "Good evenin'." I introduced myself, and pleaded my case.
"Come in where it's warm," he said; and following him to the
stove, I explained my situation.
"We ain't got much accommodation for ye," he apologized, "but I
can't leave ye and yer pet out in the cold. This is my wife," and
the man introduced me. Then he censured the landlady of the
tavern for not admitting me, saying she ought to have her license
revoked, "If you'd been a loafing vagabond and drunkard, she'd
taken ye in quick enough," said my sympathetic host; "but as ye
was a gentleman she was embarrassed to know how to treat ye." From
which I gathered that he did know how, and would prove it. He
explained that the front part of the building was a store; the
rear portion was divided into two small rooms,--a kitchen and a
sleeping room. The second floor was utilized as a hay-loft,
wherein was stored Hungarian hay for his horse, which he said he
kept "in a shed 'cross the road yonder."
"Now, if ye'll lend me a hand," he suggested, "we'll make room for
yer mule in the shed, and my wife'll get ye something to eat. Then
we'll see where we kin tuck ye comfortable till mornin'."
I pulled on my mittens and followed the man into the biting wind
with a warmer and cheerier heart, and, acquainting Mac with the
good news, proceeded to assist my host to transfer a huge woodpile
in order to obtain the side of a hen roost lying underneath it,
with which to construct a partition in the shed to preserve peace
between horse and donkey.
By one o'clock Mac was stabled and I in prime condition to enjoy
any kind of a meal. The good wife had fried me three eggs, and
brewed me a pot of tea, and sawed off several slices of home-made
bread, for which I blessed her in my heart and paid her a
compliment by eating it all.
The repast over, I chatted a while with my friends and smoked;
then said if they were ready to retire, I was. A roughly made
staircase reached from the kitchen floor over the cook-stove to a
trap-door in the ceiling, and up those stairs I followed my host,
he with candle in hand, I with a quilt which I feared the kind
people had robbed from their own bed. Great gaps yawned in the
roof and sides of the loft, through which the wind whistled
coldly. The hay was covered with snow in places and the
thermometer must have been far below zero. But I stuck my legs in
the hay, and pulled a woolen nightshirt over my traveling clothes,
and tucked the quilt round my body, and put on my hat and earlaps,
and soon was as snug as a bug in a rug, and slept soundly.
I arose early with the family, joined them at breakfast, paid my
host liberally, and started with Mac for Pittsford. There we were
welcomed by a party of young men who had expected to give us a
fitting reception the evening before. They claimed that, had they
known where we were, they would have rescued us with a bob-sleigh.
I did not tarry with them, but tramped on to Rochester, and
arrived there at 3:30 P. M., having covered thirty-five miles
since the previous morning.
We spent two days in the Flour City. An old business acquaintance
arranged for Mac A'Rony to pose in the show window of a clothing
store, for which I received five dollars. Although it was
dreadfully cold and the wind blew a gale, Mac attracted every
pedestrian on the street.
I called on "Rattlesnake Pete," the proprietor of a well-known
curiosity shop, who wanted to buy my bullet-riddled hat, but I
declined to part with it at any reasonable price; then I called on
the Mayor. He received me cordially, laughed when I related my
adventures, and subscribed to my book.
Rochester is the seat of a Theological Seminary, and several
breweries. Near by is the celebrated Genesee Falls, where Sam
Patch leaped to his death. Many old friends called on me during my
sojourn, among them a physician, who gave me a neat little case of
medicines, such as he believed would be most needed in emergency
on such a journey; and while being entertained at a club, I was
presented with a fine sombrero.
In spite of the frigid gale which had been raging three days, and
of the dire predictions of the Western Union bulletins, I started
with Mac for Spencerport at 12:30, right after lunch. The village
lay twelve miles distant. The biting wind swept across the level
meadows, laden with icy dust from the frozen crust of the snow,
and cut into our faces. Five times were Mac and I welcomed into
houses to warm, but we reached the village an hour and a half
after dark with only my ears frost-bitten, and soon were
comfortably quartered for the night. Next morning we started for
Brockport, eight miles further on, by the tow-path, which we
followed.
The wind was blowing forty miles an hour, and the mercury fell
below zero. Every now and then we had to turn our backs to the
gale to catch our breath. Mac's face was literally encased in ice;
I rubbed my ears and cheeks constantly to prevent their freezing.
Only two or three sleighs were out, and the drivers of these were
wrapped so thoroughly in robes and mufflers that I could not
distinguish male from female. Still determined not to retreat to
town, I urged my little thoroughbred on, and soon we were called
into a house and permitted to thaw out.
On this occasion Mac, to his own astonishment, as well as that of
the kind lady of the house, stuck his frosted snoot into a pot of
boiling beans on the stove, for which unprecedented behavior I
duly apologized.
Eight more times both of us were taken into hospitable homes and
inns to warm before reaching Brockport at eight in the evening,
more dead than alive. My nose and ears were now frost-bitten. The
towns-people, hearing of our arrival, flocked into the hotel to
chat with me, or went to the stable to see Mac A'Rony.
Wednesday I resumed the journey, resolved that nothing save
physical incapacity should deter me; now was the time to harden
myself to exposure, and prepare me for greater trials later on.
But before leaving, I purchased a small hand-sled, and improvised
rope-traces by which Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying
it. Besides, this novel sort of vehicle would attract attention; I
realized that we must depend for a living more upon sensation than
upon our virtues. The next thing essential was a collar for the
donkey, and I had to make it. But to make the stubborn beast
understand I wished him to draw the sled, that he wasn't hitched
to stand, was the greatest difficulty I had. Finally, he caught
on, and marched along through the streets quite respectably.
Beyond the town we met with some deep snowdrifts lying across the
road, and Mac's little legs would get stuck, or he would pretend
they were, and I would have to dig the fellow out with my rifle.
Again, while leading the stubborn animal in order to make better
time in the opposing wind, I would suddenly hear a grating,
scraping sound to the rear, and looking around would find the sled
overturned with its burden. After several such upsets, I cut a
bough from a tree, whittled a toothpick point to it, and prodded
Mac to proper speed, while I walked behind and with a string
steadied the top-heavy load of freight. Then, this difficulty
remedied, Mac, with seeming rascality, would cross and recross the
ridge of ice and snow in the center of the road, as if he couldn't
make up his mind which of the beaten tracks to follow, or disliked
the monotony of a single trail, every time upsetting the sled.
During that long and frigid day's tramp but one human being passed
me, and he was in a sleigh. He recognized my outfit, for he called
to me encouragingly, "Stick to it, Pod; you'll win yet!"
Late in the afternoon a man hailed me from the door of a
farm-house, "Come in and warm, and have a drink of cider." Now, if
there was one thing in the world that tickled my palate, it was
sweet cider, and I accepted a glass.
"Wouldn't your pard have a drink?" asked the generous man.
"Presume he would, if you offered it," I replied. "I never knew
him to refuse any kind of a beverage, though this cider is pretty
hard."
The farmer brought out a milk-pan; and that donkey drained the
pan.
"Shall I give him some more?" asked the big-hearted soul. Mac
stuck out his nose in mute response, so I said yes, provided he
would not be robbing himself; it would probably put new vigor in
the fatigued animal, and super-induce more speed.
"Got barrels of it, friend, barrels of it," said the Good
Samaritan, who refilled the pan which Mac again drained. Then
thanking the farmer, I steered my donkey on over the ice-bound
highway.
[Illustration: "_Mac could draw my luggage instead of carrying
it._"]
[Illustration: "_Mac's little legs would get stuck._"]
We had not proceeded a mile when I observed that Mac did not walk
as firmly as he had; his course was decidedly zig-zag. Finally I
left my station at the sled and guided him by the bit. Now he
staggered more than ever; then it dawned on me that the cider had
gone to his head. In less than five minutes more I regretted
having met that liberal-hearted farmer, possessing barrels of hard
cider. Suddenly the drunken donkey fell down in the snow, and,
instead of attempting to rise, he tried to stand on his head. Not
succeeding in that, he made an effort to sit up, and toppled over
backwards. All this time he brayed ecstatically, as if in the
seventh heaven. Next he began to roll, and tangled himself in the
rope traces, and tumbled the sled and gladstone bag about the
snow as though it were rubbish. Fearing lest he would break my
rifle and cameras, I tried to unbuckle them from the saddle while
the scapegrace was in the throes of delirium tremens, and got
tangled up with him in the ropes. In trying to free myself, I was
accidentally kicked over in the snow. And in that ridiculous and
awkward fix I was found by a jovial farmer, who drove up in a
sleigh. He soon helped me out of my scrape, and laughed me into
good humor, kindly consenting to take charge of my luggage and
send a bob-sleigh after the drunkard as soon as he reached his
house, a mile beyond.
There I waited for the relief committee and the wrecking sleigh to
arrive. To say I was the maddest of mortals doesn't half express
it. At length two strong men with my help succeeded in depositing
Mac on the bob; and he was conveyed to the barn and there placed
behind the bars, bedded and fed, and left to sober up, while I,
his outraged master, was hospitably entertained over night by my
charitable benefactor.
We were now at Rich's Corners, some four miles from Albion. My
good host provided me with such warm apparel as I hadn't with me,
and when bed-time came, I was trundled into a downy bed where I
dreamed all night about drunken jackasses.
By breakfast time I had recovered my good spirits. I insisted on
baking the buckwheat cakes, and not until all the family were
apparently filled with the flapjacks which I tossed in the air to
their amusement did I sit down to the table to eat.
Breakfast over, I joined my host in a smoke, then donned my wraps
for the day's journey. When we men returned from the barn with the
reformed donkey, a number of the neighboring farmers had
assembled with their families on the porch to see the overland
pilgrims. I snapped my camera on the group, said "Go on, Mac," to
my remorseful partner, and soon was plodding toward Albion.