The little Celts of this rural community were very much surprised one winter day to see their old pastor, Parson Rice, who resided at Wattsburg, go dashing by the school-house with a colored man in his sleigh. Never before had their unsophisticated eyes seen such a sight, and what they that day beheld was the all-engrossing theme in the homes of the Joneses, the Williamses and the Davises that night. As for Parson Rice, he kept right on down, down, until he reached the carding works of his worthy parishioner, where the woolly head of Charley was safely hidden amid fleeces of a far whiter hue. In this retreat he remained for some time, and was taught his letters by the young Casses, William, Edward, Jane and the others. When, at length, it was deemed safe to remove him, he was taken by Mrs. Cass to the office of the _True American_ in the city. From this, after a little delay, he was conveyed to the home of Col. Jas. Moorhead, who passed him on to Parson Nutting, at State Line, by whom he was duly forwarded to Knowlton Station, Westfield, New York. Though the temperature was below zero, it was again getting hot for Charley, for vigilant eyes all along the line were watching for the young nigger whose return to his master was sure to bring $500, and that he had reached the lake shore was now a well ascertained fact, and unusual activity was noticed among the kidnapping crew. It was a bitter cold day, with the snow flying and drifting, that Mr. Knowlton’s spanking team of jet blacks, still well remembered by many a Westfielder, came out of his yard attached to a sleigh, in the bottom of which was a package evidently of value, as it was carefully covered with blankets and robe. Under a tight rein the team headed eastward, and with almost the fleetness of the wind passed Portland, Brocton, and turning at the old Pemberton stand, in Fredonia, made Pettit Station. Here Charley was made safe and happy for the night, and the next day was landed safely in the Queen’s Dominion from Black Rock. CHAPTER VIII. STATIE LINES. I. It was in the decade of the forties that an enterprising farmer, named Barbour, of the Empire State, said to his neighbor, “Smith, I’ve a project in my head.” “Nothing strange in that,” was the response; “I never knew the time when you didn’t have one; but what is it?” “Well, you know I spent a few days about Washington recently, and I believe there is money to be made in going into its vicinity and buying up some of the worn-out farms and applying to them our agricultural methods, and raising products specially for the city market.” “What can they be purchased for?” “Anywhere from $5.00 to $10.00 an acre, any amount of them. I tell you there’s money in it.” “But it would be to ostracise one’s self. You know that there they consider it a disgrace for a white man to labor.” “All right. All I propose is head work.”