We were crossing
over the "twelve-mile bridge." In spite of my dreaming
I was keeping my eyes on the look-out for any sign of a
landmark, but this was the only one I had known so far,
and it came through the ear, not the eye. I promptly
looked back and up, to where the cottonwoods must be;
but no sign of high, weeping trees, no rustling of fall-dry
leaves, not even a deeper black in the black betrayed
their presence. Well, never before had I failed to see
some light, to hear some sound around the house of the
"moneyed" type or those of the "half way farms." Surely,
somehow I should be aware of their presence when I got
there! Some sign, some landmark would tell me how far I
had gone! . . . The horses were trotting along, steaming,
through the brewing fog. I had become all ear. Even though
my buggy was silent and though the road was coated with
a thin film of soft clay-mud, I could distinctly hear by
the muffled thud of the horses' hoofs on the ground that
they were running over a grade. That confirmed my bearings.
I had no longer a moment's doubt or anxiety over my drive.
The grade was left behind, the rut-road started again,
was passed and outrun.
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