The Road to Paris: A Story of AdventureStephens, Robert Neilson
History
The Road to Paris: A Story of Adventure
Stephens, Robert Neilson
Adventure stories; Historical fiction; United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Fiction
When the boy was in his second year, his world underwent a vast
enlargement. This came about through his father's building a house to
which the original log cabin of his birth became merely the rear wing.
The new structure, made of logs covered with rough-sawn planks, destined
to be annually whitewashed, provided two rooms on the ground floor, and
two bed-chambers overhead. One of these lower rooms communicated by a
door with the original log building, of which the ground floor was
transformed, by the removal of the partition, into one large kitchen.
From the new parlor a flight of stairs led to the room above, whence a
low door and a few descending steps gave entrance to the old loft, so
that the young explorer, by dint of long exertion, could reach the
second story unaided. And now his days were full of experiences. From
his favorite spot near the kitchen fireplace, to the farthest corner of
the spare bedroom down-stairs, by way of the parlor (which was
invariably called "the room"), was a trip sufficient for ordinary days.
But in times of extraordinary energy and ambition, the crawling Dick
would make the grand tour up the stairs and through the four
second-story apartments, which seemed countless in number, and each a
whole province in itself. So long ago was yesterday from to-day, at that
time of his life, that this immense journey was full of novelty to him
at each repetition, the adventures of one journey having been forgotten
before another could be undertaken. And these adventures were as
numerous as befell Christian in his Pilgrim's Progress. There were dark
corners, queer-looking articles of furniture seemingly with life and
expression, shadows of strange shapes, that made the young traveller
pause and hold his breath and half turn back, until reassured by the
sound of his aunt's voice calling to the chickens in the kitchen yard,
his father or the hired man sharpening his sickle or calling to the
plow-horse in the field beyond, or--most welcome and reassuring of
all--his mother singing at her work in the rooms below.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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