the Cherokees--or was it the Camanches?--had been removed from their
hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the red
men were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Trouble
with the Indians" was the staple news from Florida published in the New
Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attacked
and murdered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in
Florida, why not in Massachusetts?

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My
impatience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me
a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight
previous to the date set for our own departure--for both my parents were
to accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night
in a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come to
Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.
The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy; so I always
called her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy.

At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the
orange-trees, to say goodby to little black Sam (I am convinced he was
heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe,
who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and
then buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mounted
that morning in honor of our departure.

I fancy them standing by the open garden gate; the tears are rolling
down Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening like
pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out "goodby" in a
muffled voice to Aunt Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am never
to see them again!