Emerging at length, by a circuitous path, once more upon the prairie, instructions were again sought for the _direct_ route to Pinkneyville, and a course nearly _north_ was now pointed out. Think of that; _east_, _south_, _north_, in regular succession too, over a tract of country perfectly uniform, in order to run a _right_ line between two given points! This was past all endurance. To a moral certainty with me, the place of my destination lay away just southwest from the spot on which I was then standing. Producing, therefore, my pocket-map and pocket-compass, by means of a little calculation I had soon laid down the prescribed course, determined to pursue none other, the remonstrances, and protestations, and objurgations of men, women, and children to the contrary notwithstanding. Pushing {122} boldly forth into the prairie, I had not travelled many miles when I struck a path leading off in the direction I had chosen, and which _proved_ the direct route to Pinkneyville! Thus had I been forced to cross, recross, and cross again, a prairie miles in breadth, and to flounder through a swamp other miles in extent, to say nothing of the _depth_, and all because of the utter ignorance of the worthy souls who took upon them _to direct_. I have given this instance in detail for the special edification and benefit of all future wayfarers in Illinois. The only unerring guide on the prairies is the map and the compass. Half famished, and somewhat more than half vexed at the adventures of the morning, I found myself, near noon, at the cabin-door of an honest old Virginian, and was ere long placed in a fair way to relieve my craving appetite. With the little compass which hung at the safety-riband of my watch, and which had done me such rare service during my wanderings, the worthy old gentleman seemed heart-stricken at first sight, and warmly protested that he and the "_stranger_" must have "_a small bit of a tug_" for that _fixen_, a proposition which said stranger by no means as warmly relished. Laying, therefore, before the old farmer a slight outline of my morning's ramble, he readily perceived that with me the "_pretty leetle fixen_" was anything but a superlative. My evening ride was a delightful one along the edge of an extended prairie; but, though repeatedly assured by the worthy settlers upon the route that I could "_catch no diffick_ulty on my way no how," my compass was {123} my only safe guide. At length, crossing "Mud River" upon a lofty bridge of logs, the town of Pinkneyville was before me just at sunset.[216]