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Updated: May 7, 2025
I felt my spirits bound within me, as on a half-wild, little thorough-bred Mississippi nag, I rattled up and down the well-turfed slopes lying along the edge of the forest. After dinner took a spot, called the Devil's Punch-bowl, en route; it is formed by a vast sinking of the river-bank, trees and soil all have gone down together, forming an immense wooded basin of great depth and extent.
It could be easily enlarged at once, and by putting a wind-mill on the hill, by the deep pool in "Chicken Brook" where the pickerel loved to sport, and damming something, somewhere, I could create or evolve a miniature pond, transplant water lilies, pink and white, set willow shoots around the well-turfed, graveled edge, with roots of the forget-me-not hiding under the banks their blue blossoms; just the flower for happy lovers to gather as they lingered in their rambles to feed my trout.
So across the smooth, well-turfed country we had it, and in spite of our beasts' weariness we made good running. And while we fled I considered how best to serve the Prince. "There is a monastery near by," said I, "and the head thereof is a good friend of ours. Let us, if possible, gain that shelter, and cast ourselves on the kindness of the good Abbot Tobias."
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