need a mother so."

"They'll ketch up all right," said Samson. "We're loaded heavier than
they'll be and goin' purty slow. They'll be leavin' No Santa Claus Land
to-morrow mornin'. Seems so God spoke to me when that girl said there
wa'n't no Santa Claus there."

"No Santa Claus Land is a good name for it," said Sarah.

They got into a bad swale that afternoon and Samson had to cut some
corduroy to make a footing for team and wagon and do much prying with the
end of a heavy pole under the front axle. By and by the horses pulled
them out.

"When ol' Colonel bends his neck things have to move, even if he is up to
his belly in the mud," said Samson.

As the day waned they came to a river in the deep woods. It was an
exquisite bit of forest with the bells of a hermit thrush ringing in one
of its towers. Their call and the low song of the river were the only
sounds in the silence. The glow of the setting sun which lighted the
western windows of the forest had a color like that of the music-golden.
Long shafts of it fell through the tree columns upon the road here and
there. Our weary travelers stopped on the rude plank bridge that crossed
the river. Odors of balsam and pine and tamarack came in a light, cool
breeze up the river valley.

"It smells like Bear Valley," said Sarah.

"What was that poetry you learned for the church party?" Samson asked.