It was an odd spectacle to see such a vehicle trudging along at such an hour, where no carriage had ever passed before. The two young men were odd characters; the horses were oddly matched, one being a little dumpy black pony, and the other a noble white steed; and it was an odd whim which induced Glenn to abandon his comfortable home in Philadelphia, and traverse such inclement wilds. But love can play the “_wild_” with any young man. Yet we will not spoil our narrative by introducing any of it here. Nor could it have been love that induced Joe to share his master’s freaks; but rather a rare penchant for the miraculous adventures to be enjoyed in the western wilderness, and the gold which his master often showered upon him with a reckless hand. Joe’s forefathers were from the Isle of Erin, and although he had lost the brogue, he still retained some of their superstitions. The wind continued to blow, the wolves howled, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled. Ere long the little black pony snorted aloud and paused abruptly. “What ails you, Pete?” said Joe from his lofty position on the steed, addressing his favourite little pet. “Get along,” he continued, striking the animal gently with his whip. But Pete was as immovable and unconscious of the lash as would have been a stone. And the steed seemed likewise to be infected with the pony’s stubbornness, after the wagon was brought to a pause. “Why have you stopped, Joe?” inquired Glen. “I don’t hardly know, sir; but the stupid horses won’t budge an inch farther!” “Very well; we can remain here till morning. Take the harness off, and give them the corn in the box; we can sleep in the wagon till daylight.” “But we have no food for ourselves, sir; and I’m vastly hungry. It can’t be much farther to the ferry,” continued Joe, vexed at the conduct of the horses. “Very well; do as you like; drive on, if you desire to do so,” said Glenn.