“See here, Colonel,” said he—strangers in the West are usually decorated with visionary epaulettes—“you mustn’t keep the rein so slack as that, nor yet hold your hand up level with your cravat, or, scalp me, but you’ll be spilt! Mustangs want a tight grip on the bit. So—steady now. Stick in your knees, Colonel, and scorn to ketch hold of the pummel—so. Do as you see me do; give him a touch of the spur, but mind his kicking—for mustangs _can_ kick, they can. You’ll do nicely, now.” Ichabod was a skilful riding-master, by instinct, I suppose; and, thanks to his forcible instructions, I was soon on better terms with my refractory quadruped. On we rode, over the waving grass, through the rank weeds, through the belts of cottonwood timber and maples that skirted every streamlet, and past the swampy bottoms where sluggish waters wound like wounded snakes. We dined on dried venison, jerked beef, parched corn, and hominy, at a farm which did duty for an inn, and slept at another house of the same character. Next day we resumed our route; and as we rode towards Keosauque, I ventured to ask Ichabod if he had ever heard of the Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. I had been hitherto averse to propounding this query; for how could I tell whether the interests of my informant might conflict with mine?—but with this rough frontiersman I felt I was safe. He, at least, was no rival speculator—no shareholder in a competing line—no steamboat proprietor, or lord of many stage-waggons. But his first answer was not satisfactory. It was comprised in the one word, “Anan!” “The Railway”—asked I again—“from Nauvoo to Nebraska: not a finished thing, of course; but you surely must have seen or heard of the works—the bridges, the embankments, and the rest of the preparations?” Ichabod shook his head. “You’re talking Greek to me, Colonel, and that air a fact.” “How is it possible,” cried I, in an agony, “that there can have been a railway begun in this country, and the settlers unaware of it? Surely you must be a stranger to this part of the State yourself!” “You’re wrong there, Colonel,” answered Ichabod; “I’m Illinois born, but I’m Iowa bred. In this State I was raised; and I don’t believe there’s a thing happened over the border sin’ I could mount a horse, be it buffler or deer, loping Indian, runaway nigger, or Yankee pedlar, without my hearing on’t. Stop” (and he smote his knee with a palm as hard as iron)—“I’ve got it. You’re talking of Harvey’s Folly.” And I thought the young backwoodsman would have tumbled off his horse in the extravagant burst of mirth which this discovery produced. “Who-whoop!” cried he; “I’ve seen queer sights, but never did I think to see a stranger come out in a bee-line from the old country—no offence, Colonel!—to ax about Harvey’s Folly. I’d nigh forgot that the thing existed at all. Wah! but it beats coon-catching!”