At ten minutes past four, of an evening late in September,
I sat in the buggy and swung out of the livery stable
that boarded my horse. Peter, the horse, was a chunky
bay, not too large, nor too small; and I had stumbled on
to him through none of my sagacity. To tell the plain
truth, I wanted to get home, I had to have a horse that
could stand the trip, no other likely looking horse was
offered, this one was--on a trial drive he looked as if
he might do, and so I bought him--no, not quite--I arranged
with the owner that I should make one complete trip with
him and pay a fee of five dollars in case I did not keep
him. As the sequence showed, I could not have found a
better horse for the work in hand.

I turned on to the road leading north, crossed the bridge,
and was between the fields. I looked at my watch and
began to time myself. The moon was new and stood high in
the western sky; the sun was sinking on the downward
stretch. It was a pleasant, warm fall day, and it promised
an evening such as I had wished for on my first drive
out. Not a cloud showed anywhere. I did not urge the
horse; he made the first mile in seven, and a half minutes,
and I counted that good enough.

Then came the turn to the west; this new road was a
correction line, and I had to follow it for half a mile.
There was no farmhouse on this short bend. Then north
for five miles. The road was as level as a table top--a
good, smooth, hard-beaten, age-mellowed prairie-grade.
The land to east and west was also level; binders were