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Chapter Twenty Three
Exalted with our success, we march through France without touching the ground—I become feminine—We are voluntary conscripts

At day-break I called O’Brien, who jumped up in a great hurry.

“Sure I’ve been asleep, Peter.”

“Yes, you have,” replied I, “and I thank Heaven that you have, for no one could stand such fatigue as you have much longer; and if you fall ill, what will become of me?” This was touching him on the right point.

“Well, Peter, since there’s no harm come of it, there’s no harm done. I’ve had sleep enough for the next week, that’s certain.”

We returned to the wood; the snow had disappeared, and the rain ceased; the sun shone out from between the clouds, and we felt warm.

“Don’t pass so near that way,” said O’Brien, “we shall see the poor creatures, now that the sun is gone. Peter, we must shift our quarters to-night, for I have been to every cabaret in the village, and I cannot go there any more without suspicion, although I am a gendarme.”

We remained there till the evening, and then set off, still returning toward Givet. About an hour before daylight we arrived at a copse of trees close to the road-side, and surrounded by a ditch, not above a quarter of a mile from a village “It appears to me,” said O’Brien, “that this will do; I will now put you there, and then go boldly to the village and see what I can get, for here we must stay at least a week.”

We walked to the copse, and the ditch being rather too wide for me to leap, O’Brien laid the four stilts together, so as to form a bridge, over which I contrived to walk. Tossing to me all the bundles, and desiring me to leave the stilts as a bridge for him on his return, he set off to the village with his musket on his shoulder. He was away two hours, when he returned with a large supply of provisions, the best we had ever had.

“There,” said he, “we have enough for a good week; and look here, Peter, this is better than all.” And he showed me two large horse-rugs.

“Excellent,” replied I; “now we shall be comfortable.”

“I paid honestly for all but these rugs,” observed O’Brien; “I was afraid to buy them, so I stole them. However, we’ll leave them here for those they belong to—it’s only borrowing, after all.”

We now prepared a very comfortable shelter with branches, which we wove together, and laying the leaves in the sun to dry, soon obtained a soft bed to put our horse-rug on, while we covered ourselves up with the other. Our bridge of stilts we had removed, so that we felt ourselves quite secure from surprise. At dark, to bed we went, and slept soundly; I never felt more refreshed during our wanderings. At daylight O’Brien got up.

“Now, Peter, a little practice before breakfast.”

“What practice do you mean?”

“Mean why, on the stilts. I expect in a week that you’ll be able to dance a gavotte at least; for mind me, Peter, you travel out of France upon these stilts, depend upon it.”

O’Brien then took the stilts belonging to the man, giving me those of the woman. We strapped them to our thighs, and by fixing our backs to a tree, contrived to get upright upon them; but at the first attempt to walk, O’Brien fell to the right, and I fell to the left. O’Brien fell against a tree, but I fell on my nose, and made it bleed very much; however, we laughed and got up again, and although we had several falls, at last we made a better hand of them.

O’Brien then dressed me in the poor girl’s clothes, and himself in the man’s; they fitted very well.

“Peter, you make a very pretty girl,” said O’Brien.

“But, O’Brien,” replied I, “as these petticoats are not very warm, I mean to cut off my trousers up to my knees, and wear them underneath.”

“That’s all right,” said O’Brien.

The next morning we made use of our stilts to cross the ditch, and carrying them in our hands we boldly set off on the high road to Malines. We met several people, gendarmes, and others, but with the exception of some remarks upon my good looks we passed unnoticed. Towards the evening we arrived at the village where we had slept in the outhouse, and as soon as we entered it, we put on our stilts, and commenced a march. When the crowd had gathered, we held out our caps, and receiving nine or ten sous, we entered a cabaret. Many questions were asked us, as to where we came from, and O’Brien answered, telling lies innumerable. I played the modest girl, and O’Brien, who stated I was his sister, appeared very careful and jealous of my attention. We slept well, and the next morning continued our route to Malines. As we entered the barriers we put on our stilts, and marched boldly on. The guard at the gate stopped us, not from suspicion, but to amuse themselves, and I was forced to submit to several kisses from their garlic lips before we were allowed to enter the town. We again mounted on our stilts, for the guard had forced us to dismount, or they could not have kissed me, every now and then imitating a dance, until we arrived at the Grande Place, where we stopped opposite the hotel, and commenced a sort of waltz, which we had practised. The people in the hotel looked out of the window to see our exhibition, and when we had finished I went up to the windows with O’Brien’s cap to collect money. What was my surprise to perceive Colonel O’Brien looking full in my face, and staring very hard at me? what was my greater astonishment at seeing Celeste, who immediately recognised me, and ran back to the sofa in the room, putting her hands up to her eyes, and crying out, “C’est lui, c’est lui!” Fortunately O’Brien was close to me, or I should have fallen, but he supported me. “Peter, ask the crowd for money, or you are lost.” I did so, and collecting some pence, then asked him what I should do. “Go back to the window—you can then judge of what will happen.” I returned to the window:

Colonel O’Brien had disappeared, but Celeste was there, as if waiting for me. I held out the cap to her, and she thrust her hand into it. The cap sunk with the weight. I took out a purse, which I kept closed in my hand, and put it into my bosom. Celeste then retired from the window, and when she had gone to the back of the room kissed her hand to me, and went out at the door. I remained stupefied for a moment, but O’Brien roused me, and we quitted the Grande Place, taking up our quarters at a little cabaret. On examining the purse, I found fifty Napoleons in it: they must have been obtained from her father.

At the cabaret where we stopped, we were informed that the officer who was at the hotel had been appointed to the command of the strong fort of Bergen-op-Zoom, and was proceeding thither.

We walked out of the town early in the morning, after O’Brien had made purchases of some of the clothes usually worn by the peasantry. When within a few miles of St. Nicholas, we threw away our stilts and the clothes which we had on, and dressed ourselves in those O’Brien had purchased. O’Brien had not forgot to provide us with two large brown-coloured blankets, which we strapped on to our shoulders, as the soldiers do their coats.

It was bitter cold weather, and the snow had fallen heavily during the whole day; but although nearly dusk, there was a bright moon ready for us. We walked very fast, and soon observed persons ahead of us. “Let us overtake them, we may obtain some information.” As we came up with them, one of them (they were both lads of seventeen to eighteen) said to O’Brien, “I thought we were the last, but I was mistaken. How far is it now to St. Nicholas?”

“How should I know?” replied O’Brien, “I am a stranger in these parts as well as yourself.”

“From what part of France do you come?” demanded the other, his teeth chattering with the cold, for he was badly clothed, and with little defence from the inclement weather.

“From Montpelier,” replied O’Brien.

“And I from Toulouse. A sad change, comrades from olives and vines to such a climate as this. Curse the conscription: I intended to have taken a little wife next year.”

O’Brien gave me a push, as if to say, “Here’s something that will do,” and then continued—“And curse the conscription I say too, for I had just married, and now my wife is left to be annoyed by the attention of the fermier général. But it can’t be helped. C’est pour la France et pour la gloire.”

“We shall be too late to get a billet,” replied the other, “and not a sou have I in my pockets. I doubt if I get up with the main body till they are at Flushing. By our route, they are at Axel to-day.”

“If we arrive at St. Nicholas we shall do well,” replied O’Brien; “but I have a little money left, and I’ll not see a comrade want a supper or a bed who is going to serve his country. You can repay me when we meet at Flushing.”

“That I will, with thanks,” replied the Frenchman, “and so will Jaques, here, if you will trust him.”

“With pleasure,” replied O’Brien, who then entered into along conversation, by which he drew out from the Frenchmen that a party of conscripts had been ordered to Flushing, and that they had dropped behind the main body. In about an hour we arrived at St. Nicholas, and after some difficulty obtained entrance into a cabaret. “Vive la France!” said O’Brien, going up to the fire, and throwing the snow off his hat. In a short time we were seated to a good supper and very tolerable wine, the hostess sitting down by us, and listening to the true narratives of the real conscripts, and the false one of O’Brien. After supper the conscript who first addressed us pulled out his printed paper, with the route laid down, and observed that we were two days behind the others. O’Brien read it over, and laid it on the table, at the same time calling for more wine, having already pushed it round very freely. We did not drink much ourselves, but plied them hard, and at last the conscript commenced the whole history of his intended marriage and his disappointment, tearing his hair, and crying now and then. “Never mind,” interrupted O’Brien, every two or three minutes; “buvons un autre coup pour la gloire!” and thus he continued to make them both drink, until they reeled away to bed, forgetting their printed paper, which O’Brien had some time before slipped away from the table. We also retired to our room, when O’Brien observed to me, “Peter, this description is as much like me as I am to old Nick; but that’s of no consequence, as nobody goes willingly as a conscript, and therefore they will never have a doubt but that it is all right. We must be off early to-morrow, while these good people are in bed, and steal a long march upon them. I consider that we are now safe as far as Flushing.”

Chapter Twenty Four
What occurred at Flushing, and what occurred when we got out of Flushing

An hour before day-break we started; the snow was thick on the ground, but the sky was clear, and without any difficulty or interruption was passed through the towns of Axel and Haist, arrived at Terneuse on the fourth day, and went over to Flushing in company with about a dozen more stragglers from the main body. As we landed, the guard asked us whether we were conscripts. O’Brien replied that he was, and held out his paper. They took his name, or rather that of the person it belonged to, down in a book, and told him that he must apply to the état major before three o’clock. We passed on, delighted with our success, and then O’Brien pulled out the letter which had been given to him by the woman of the cabaret who had offered to assist me to escape, when O’Brien passed off as a gendarme, and reading the address, demanded his way to the street. We soon found out the house, and entered.

“Conscripts!” said the woman of the house, looking at O’Brien; “I am billeted full already. It must be a mistake. Where is your order?”

“Read,” said O’Brien, handing her the letter.

She read the letter, and putting it into her neckerchief, desired him to follow her. O’Brien beckoned me to come, and we went into a small room. “What can I do for you?” said the woman; “I will do all in my power; but, alas! you will march from here in two or three days.”

“Never mind,” replied O’Brien, “we will talk the matter over by-and-by, but at present only oblige us by letting us remain in this little room; we do not wish to be seen.”

“Comment donc!—you a conscript, and not wish to be seen! Are you, then, intending to desert?”

“Answer me one question; you have read that letter, do you intend to act up to its purport, as your sister requests?”

“As I hope for mercy I will, if I suffer everything. She is a dear sister, and would not write so earnestly if she had not strong reasons. My house and everything you command are yours—can I say more?”

“What is your name?” inquired O’Brien.

“Louise Eustache; you might have read it on the letter.”

“Are you married?”

“O yes, these six years. My husband is seldom at home; he is a Flushing pilot. A hard life, harder even that that of a soldier. Who is this lad?”

“He is my brother, who, if I go as a soldier, intends to volunteer as a drummer.”

“Pauvre enfant! c’est dommage.”

The cabaret was full of conscripts and other people, so that the hostess had enough to do. At night we were shown by her into a small bedroom, adjoining the room we occupied. “You are quite alone here: the conscripts are to muster to-morrow, I find, in the Place d’Armes, at two o’clock: do you intend to go?”

“No,” replied O’Brien; “they will think that I am behind. It is of no consequence.”

“Well,” replied the woman, “do as you please, you may trust me; but I am so busy, without anyone to assist me, that until they leave the town, I can hardly find time to speak to you.”

“That will be soon enough, my good hostess,” replied O’Brien: “au revoir.”

The next evening, the woman came in, in some alarm, stating that a conscript had arrived whose name had been given in before, and that the person who had given it in had not mustered at the place. That the conscript had declared that his pass had been stolen from him by a person with whom he had stopped at St. Nicholas, and that there were orders for a strict search to be made through the town, as it was known that some English officers had escaped, and it was supposed that one of them had obtained the pass. “Surely you’re not English?” inquired the woman, looking earnestly at O’Brien.

“Indeed, but I am, my dear,” replied O’Brien; “and so is this lad with me; and the favour which your sister requires is that you help us over the water, for which service there are one hundred louis ready to be paid upon delivery of us.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! mais c’est impossible.”

“Impossible!” replied O’Brien; “was that the answer I gave your sister in her trouble?”

“Au moins c’est difficile.”

“That’s quite another concern; but with your husband a pilot I should think a great part of the difficulty removed.”

“My husband! I’ve no power over him,” replied the woman, putting her apron up to her eyes.

“But one hundred louis may have,” replied O’Brien.

“There is truth in that,” observed the woman, after a pause; “but what am I to do, if they come to search the house?”

“Send us out of it, until you can find an opportunity to send us to England. I leave it all to you—your sister expects it from you.”

“And she shall not be disappointed, if God helps us,” replied the woman, after a short pause; “but I fear you must leave this house and the town also to-night.”

“How are we to leave the town?”

“I will arrange that; be ready at four o’clock, for the gates are shut at dusk. I must go now, for there is no time to be lost.”

“We are in a nice mess now, O’Brien,” observed I, after the woman had quitted the room.

“Devil a bit, Peter; I feel no anxiety whatever, except at leaving such good quarters.”

We packed up all our effects, not forgetting our two blankets, and waited the return of the hostess. In about an hour she entered the room. “I have spoken to my husband’s sister, who lives about two miles on the road to Middleburg. She is in town now, for it is market-day, and you will be safe where she hides you. I told her it was by my husband’s request, or she would not have consented. Here, boy, put on these clothes: I will assist you.” Once more I was dressed as a girl, and when my clothes were on, O’Brien burst out into laughter at my blue stockings and short petticoats. “Il n’est pas mal,” observed the hostess, as she fixed a small cap on my head, and then tied a kerchief under my chin, which partly hid my face. O’Brien put on a great coat, which the woman handed to him, with a wide-brimmed hat. “Now follow me!” She led us into the street, which was thronged, till we arrived at the market-place when she met another women, who joined her. At the end of the marketplace stood a small horse and cart, into which the strange woman and I mounted, while O’Brien, by the directions of the landlady, led the horse through the crowd until we arrived at the barriers, when she wished us good day in a loud voice before the guard. The guard took no notice of us, and we passed safely through, and found ourselves upon a neatly-paved road, as straight as an arrow, and lined on each side with high trees and a ditch. In about an hour we stopped near to the farm-house of the woman who was in charge of us. “Do you observe that wood?” said she to O’Brien, pointing to one about half-a-mile from the road. “I dare not take you into the house, my husband is so violent against the English, who captured his schuyt, and made him a poor man, that he would inform against you immediately; but go you there, make yourselves as comfortable as you can to-night, and to-morrow I will send you what you want. Adieu! Je vous plains, pauvre enfant,” said she looking at me as she drove off in the cart towards her own house.

“Peter,” said O’Brien, “I think that her kicking us out of her house is a proof of her sincerity, and therefore I say no more about it; we have the brandy-flask to keep up our spirits. Now then for the wood, though, by the powers, I shall have no relish for any of your pic-nic parties, as they call them, for the next twelve years.”

“But, O’Brien, how can I get over this ditch in petticoats? I could hardly leap it in my clothes.”

“You must tie your petticoats round your waist and make a good run; get over as far as you can, and I will drag you through the rest.”

“But you forget that we are to sleep in the wood, and that it’s no laughing matter to get wet through, freezing so hard as it does now.”

“Very true, Peter; but as the snow lies so deep upon the ditch, perhaps the ice may bear. I’ll try; if it bears me, it will not condescend to bend at your shrimp of carcass.”

O’Brien tried the ice, which was firm, and we both walked over, and making all the haste we could, arrived at the wood, as the woman called it, but which was not more than a clump of trees of about half an acre. We cleared away the snow for about six feet round a very hollow part, and then O’Brien cut stakes and fixed them in the earth, to which we stretched one blanket. The snow being about two feet deep, there was plenty of room to creep underneath the blanket. We then collected all the leaves we could, beating the snow off them, and laid them at the bottom of the hole; over the leaves we spread the other blanket, and taking our bundles in, we then stopped up with snow every side of the upper blanket, except the hole to creep in at. It was quite astonishing what a warm place this became in a short time after we had remained in it. It was almost too warm, although the weather outside was piercingly cold. After a good meal and a dose of brandy, we both fell fast asleep, but not until I had taken off my woman’s attire and resumed my own clothes. We never slept better or more warmly than we did in this hole which we had made on the ground, covered with ice and snow.

Chapter Twenty Five
O’Brien parts company to hunt for provisions, and I have other company in consequence of another hunt—O’Brien pathetically mourns my death and finds me alive—We escape

The ensuing morning we looked out anxiously for the promised assistance, for we were not very rich in provisions, although what we had were of a very good quality. It was not until three o’clock in the afternoon that we perceived a little girl coming towards us, escorted by a large mastiff. When she arrived at the copse of trees where we lay concealed, she cried out to the dog in Dutch, who immediately scoured the wood until he came to our hiding-place, when he crouched down at the entrance, barking furiously, and putting us in no small dread, lest he should attack us; but the little girl spoke to him again, and he remained in the same position, looking at us, wagging his tail, with his under jaw lying on the snow. She soon came up, and looking underneath, put a basket in, and nodded her head. We emptied the basket. O’brien took out a Napoleon and offered it to her; she refused it, but O’Brien forced it into her hand, upon which she again spoke to the dog, who commenced barking so furiously at us, that we expected every moment he would fly upon us. The girl at the same time presenting the Napoleon, and pointing to the dog, I went forward and took the Napoleon from her, at which she immediately silenced the enormous brute, and laughing at us, hastened away.

“By the powers, that’s a fine little girl!” said O’Brien; “I’ll back her and her dog against any man. Well, I never had a dog set at me for giving money before, but we live and learn, Peter; and now let’s see what she’s brought in the basket.” We found half-boiled eggs, bread, and a smoked mutton-ham, with a large bottle of gin. “What a nice little girl! I hope she will often favour us with her company. I’ve been thinking, Peter, that we’re quite as well off here, as in a midshipman’s berth.”

“You forget that you are a lieutenant.”

“Well, so I did, Peter, and that’s the truth, but it’s the force of habit. Now let’s make our dinner. It’s a new-fashioned way though, of making a meal lying down; but, however, it’s economical, for it must take longer to swallow the victuals.”

“The Romans used to eat their meals lying down, so I have read, O’Brien.”

“I can’t say that I ever heard it mentioned in Ireland, but that don’t prove that it was not the case; so, Peter, I’ll take your word for it. Murder! how fast it snows again. I wonder what my father’s thinking on just at this moment.”

This observation of O’Brien induced us to talk about our friends and relations in England, and after much conversation we fell fast asleep. The next morning we found the snow had fallen about eight inches, and weighing down our upper blanket so much, that we were obliged to go out and cut stakes to support it up from the inside. While we were thus employed, we heard a loud noise and shouting, and perceived several men, apparently armed and accompanied with dogs, running straight in the direction of the wood where we were encamped. We were much alarmed, thinking that they were in search of us, but on a sudden they turned off in another direction, continuing with the same speed as before. “What could it be?” said I to O’Brien. “I can’t exactly say, Peter; but I should think that they were hunting something, and the only game that I think likely to be in such a place as this are otters.” I was of the same opinion. We expected the little girl, but she did not come, and after looking out for her till dark, we crawled into our hole and supped upon the remainder of our provisions.

The next day, as may be supposed, we were very anxious for her arrival, but she did not appear at the time expected. Night again came on, and we went to bed without having any sustenance, except a small piece of bread that was left, and some gin which was remaining in the flask, “Peter,” said O’Brien, “if she don’t come again to-morrow, I’ll try what I can do; for I’ve no idea of our dying of hunger here, like the two babes in the wood, and being found covered up with dead leaves. If she does not appear at three o’clock, I’m off for provisions, and I don’t see much danger, for in this dress I look as much of a boor as any man in Holland.”

We passed an uneasy night, as we felt convinced either that the danger was so great that they dare not venture to assist us, or, that being over-ruled, they had betrayed us, and left us to manage how we could. The next morning I climbed up the only large tree in the copse and looked round, especially in the direction of the farm-house belonging to the woman who had pointed out to us our place of concealment; but nothing was to be seen but one vast tract of flat country covered with snow, and now and then a vehicle passing at a distance on the Middleburg road. I descended, and found O’Brien preparing for a start. He was very melancholy, and said to me, “Peter, if I am taken, you must, at all risks, put on your girl’s clothes and go to Flushing to the cabaret. The women there, I am sure, will protect you, and send you back to England. I only want two Napoleons; take all the rest, you will require them. If I am not back by to-night, set off for Flushing to-morrow morning.” O’Brien waited some time longer, talking with me, and it then being past four o’clock, he shook me by the hand, and, without speaking, left the wood. I never felt miserable during the whole time since we were first put into prison at Toulon, till that moment, and, when he was a hundred yards off, I knelt down and prayed. He had been absent two hours, and it was quite dusk, when I heard a noise at a distance: it advanced every moment nearer and nearer. On a sudden, I heard a rustling of the bushes, and hastened under the blanket, which was covered with snow, in hopes that they might not perceive the entrance; but I was hardly there before in dashed after me an enormous wolf. I cried out, expecting to be torn to pieces every moment; but the creature lay on his belly, his mouth wide open, his eyes glaring, and his long tongue hanging out of his mouth, and although he touched me, he was so exhausted that he did not attack me. The noise increased, and I immediately perceived that it was the hunters in pursuit of him. I had crawled in feet first, the wolf ran in head-foremost, so that we lay head and tail. I crept out as fast as I could, and perceived men and dogs not two hundred yards off in full chase. I hastened to the large tree, and had not ascended six feet when they came up; the dogs flew to the hole, and in a very short time the wolf was killed. The hunters being too busy to observe me, I had, in the meantime, climbed up the trunk of the tree, and hid myself as well as I could. Being not fifteen yards from them, I heard their expressions of surprise as they lifted up the blanket and dragged out the dead wolf, which they carried away with them; their conversation being in Dutch, I could not understand it, but I was certain that they made use of the word “English.” The hunters and dogs quitted the copse, and I was about to descend, when one of them returned, and pulling up the blankets, rolled them together and walked away with them. Fortunately he did not perceive our bundles by the little light given by the moon. I waited a short time and then came down. What to do I knew not. If I did not remain and O’Brien returned, what would he think? If I did, I should be dead with cold before the morning. I looked for our bundles, and found that in the conflict between the dogs and the wolf, they had been buried among the leaves. I recollected O’Brien’s advice, and dressed myself in the girl’s clothes, but I could not make up my mind, to go to Flushing. So I resolved to walk towards the farm-house, which being close to the road, would give me a chance of meeting with O’Brien. I soon arrived there, and prowled round it for some time, but the doors and windows were all fast, and I dared not knock, after what the woman had said about her husband’s inveteracy to the English. At last, as I looked round and round, quite at a loss what to do, I thought I saw a figure at a distance proceeding in the direction of the copse. I hastened after it and saw it enter. I then advanced very cautiously, for although I thought it might be O’Brien, yet it was possible that it was one of the men who chased the wolf, in search of more plunder. But I soon heard O’Brien’s voice; and I hastened towards him. I was close to him without his perceiving me, and found him sitting down with his face covered up in his two hands. At last he cried, “O Pater! my poor Pater! are you taken at last? Could I not leave you for one hour in safety? Ochone! why did I leave you? My poor, poor Pater! simple you were, sure enough, and that’s why I loved you; but, Pater, I would have made a man of you, for you’d all the materials, that’s the truth—and a fine man too. Where am I to look for you, Pater? Where am I to find you, Pater? You’re fast locked up by this time, and all my trouble’s gone for nothing. But I’ll be locked up too, Pater. Where you are, will I be; and if we can’t go to England together, why then we’ll go back to that blackguard hole at Givet together. Ochone! Ochone!” O’Brien spoke no more, but burst into tears. I was much affected with this proof of o’brien’s sincere regard, and I came to his side, and clasped him in my arms. O’Brien stared at me—“Who are you, you ugly Dutch frow?” (for he had quite forgotten the woman’s dress at the moment,) but recollecting himself, he hugged me in his arms. “Pater, you come as near to an angel’s shape as you can, for you come in that of a woman, to comfort me; for, to tell the truth, I was very much distressed at not finding you here; and all the blankets gone to boot. What has been the matter?” I explained in as few words as I could.

“Well, Peter, I’m happy to find you all safe, and much happier to find that you can be trusted when I leave you, for you could not have behaved more prudently. Now I’ll tell you what I did, which was not much, as it happened. I knew that there was no cabaret between us and Flushing, for I took particular notice as I came along: so I took the road to Middleburg, and found but one, which was full of soldiers. I passed it, and found no other. As I came back past the same cabaret, one of the soldiers came out to me, but I walked along the road. He quickened his pace, and so did I mine, for I expected mischief. At last he came up to me, and spoke to me, in Dutch, to which I gave him no answer. He collared me, and then I thought it convenient to pretend that I was deaf and dumb. I pointed to my mouth with an Au—au—and then to my ears, and shook my head; but he would not be convinced, and I heard him say something about English. I then knew that there was no time to be lost, so I first burst out into a loud laugh and stopped; and on his attempting to force me, I kicked up his heels, and he fell on the ice with such a rap on the pate, that I doubt if he has recovered it by this time. There I left him, and have run back as hard as I could, without any thing for Peter to fill his little hungry inside with. Now, Peter, what’s your opinion? for they say, that out of the mouth of babes there is wisdom; and although I never saw anything come out of their mouths but sour milk, yet perhaps I may be more fortunate, this time, for, Peter, you’re but a baby.”