he climbed a little hill, from which he could look back at the house.
He gazed long, and his heart nearly failed him. He could see in
imagination every homely detail of the living room, his father's chair
to the right of the fireplace, his mother's on the left, the clock
between the front windows, which his father wound every night. On a
nail hung his old rimless hat, Charlie's coat, and the little sister's
sunbonnet. His mother would soon be up and getting breakfast. They
would all sit down without him--a lump began to rise in his throat and
he almost turned back. But something in his nature always prevented
him from giving up a thing he had once undertaken. He set his teeth,
picked up his bundle and went down the road between the mountains,
the woods stretching, dense, silent, on each side, the little brook
keeping close by him like the good, true friend it was.

It was a long, long tramp to the little village of Huntington, a walk
that went for miles beneath overarching green trees, the sunlight
sifting down like a shower of gold in the dim wood aisles. The wild
mountain stream merged into the quiet Westfield river that flowed
placidly through little sunny meadows and rippled in a sedate way here
and there over stones as became the dignity of a river. Small white
farmhouses, set about with golden lilies and deep crimson peonies,
here and there looked out on the road. But his mind was intent on the
wonderful experiences ahead of him; he walked as in a dream. Reaching
Huntington, he asked a conductor if he could get a job on the train to
pay his way to Boston. The conductor eyed the lanky country boy with
sympathetic amusement. He appreciated the situation and told Russell
he didn't think he had any job just then, but he might sit in the
baggage car and should a job turn up, it would be given him. Delighted
with this piece of good luck, Russell sat in the baggage car and
journeyed to Boston.