Genuine offers of hospitality were not wanting, and many a pedestrian found a seat in the comfortable little carriage. It so happened one morning that my husband was somewhat bewildered by the conjunction of several roads, and seeing in advance of us a sturdy figure moving forward at a good pace we hurried to overtake it. At the sound of approaching wheels, and the words “My friend, can thee tell me just where _Pitcher_ lies?” a genial countenance was turned toward us. “Wal, I reckon, this here,” indicating the abrupt hills just before us, “is the handle. What part be ye looking fer?” He had a ruddy face, very grizzly as to beard, and when he removed his weather-worn hat his smooth, bald crown, with a fringe of white curls, seemed an unfit accompaniment for the twinkling eyes of deep blue--such eyes as one sometimes sees in babies, wholly undimmed by care or tears. “Why, I really don’t know,” laughed my husband; “I was directed to Hosmer’s Inn.” “Oh, ho! that’s atwixt the nose and the swell. Now ye are smiling, and well ye may; but just step out here and ye can see that God A’mighty shaped a perfecter pitcher out of them hills than most men can turn on a wheel--no, ye can’t drive nigh to this stump, and that’s whar yer woman wants to stand.” He helped us all to alight, gave me his hand as I climbed to the top of the stump, and pointed with his thumb to a rise of ground far in the rear. “That thar’s the rim, being what the pitcher ought to rest on if the Lord had sot it on end.” There was no possible irreverence in his tone. “Hereabouts,” a rolling section nearer us, “is the swell. Just across Bub’s left shoulder lies the nose, and here right for’ard is the beginning of the handle. Foller it--see it curves jest so.” It was very plain, and we all expressed our complete understanding of the “lay of the land.” “There is jest four p’ints where you can see the whole figger to onct. Here, by this hick’ry stump; yander, north of the nose; south of them pines ye see, and kinder back of the rim. Them’s all, but it’s worth a journey--and I take it ye are travelers--to see how darned perfect the thing is. Looked to right, it couldn’t be beat; and I reckon, somehow, it’s about so with the most of God A’mighty’s doin’s--ef we look to ’em _right_ they’re about perfect, that’s all there is of it.” My husband thanked the old man cordially and invited him to ride with us if his route lay that way. “Wal, now, I don’t care ef I do, squire. Ye hev the speech of the Quakers and them’s mighty good folk, and it haint often nowadays that I get behind two such spankin’ roans as them be. Nor,” as he clambered into the front seat, “nor nigh so sensible a looking woman--yer wife, maybe?” “Yes; this is my wife and son.” “It’s a darned good thing to hev yer wife with ye, along in life. I haint never had one yit,” he added evasively.