A STRANGE BED.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1517, 29 January 1886, Page 4

A STRANGE BED.

One bleak December night, about the year 1823, I, John Newstead, country traveller for the whole sile drapery firm of Mirriott Brothers, Manchester, was making my way on the back of my steady, sure-footed gray mare P >lly, across Sefton Moor, a stretch of wild barren heath lying between the town of Packerton and Shefton-on-the-Wold Yorkshire.

In those days, before railroads had taken the poetry out of everything, and when the knights errant of commerce "journeyed from towy to town on horse back or in gigs, there was a touch of romance even in a " bagman's" life ; many an adventure hid I met with in the course of my peregrinations through the n >rthern counties, along lonely country roads, down still lonlei<*r country lanes, over wild hills, or across desolate "wolds" like the one I wa< now traversing. I had been collecting accounts for my employers, Messrs Marriott, at Packerton, on th; day before, and in the breast-pocket of of mv coat was a bulky leather pocket-book containing nearly two hundred pound* in gold and notes, which I was to deposit in the bank at Shefton on the morrow. My pack, together with the valise c mtaining my personal belongings was strapped behind the saddle, and in the holster was a pair of pistols, indispensable companions for a solitary traveller in those days. I hid started from Packerton early in the afternoon, and should Jhave reached Sefton before dark but for the a?cident of Polly's casting a shoe, which had cost a tiresome delay at a little wayside smithy. Night was closing in before baif my journey was a.-com-pli-ihed. and I had the pleasant proepect of being beiated on the heath. Sefton Moor, in its forlorn solitude, is a depressing place even on a summer morning, when the sun is shinintj and the lurks are singing among the heather ; but. on a winter night it would be difficult to imagine a scene more bleak and dismal, and, as I glanced at the dreary road before me, I felt my spirits sink to within a few degrees below zero. It was intensely cold, and moon and stars were invisible, for the sky was shrouded in a mantle of fleecy clouds ; ac'iillmiar gradually crept over the moor, and presently, to my dismay, it began to snow. Faster and faster, thicker and thickor, every moment came the soft feathery flakes, till all the air was tremulous, and I seemed to be shut in on every side by a constantly-decending white curtain, which moved with me as I moved and never lifted for a moment. I had crossed the heath mo e than once before in my annual visits to the neighbourhood, but my daylight experience of the place was of little use to me now, when I could hardlysee a yard before me.

We plodded on through the snow ani mist for several miles, the way becoming at every step more difficult to trace, when I began to have an uneasy suspicion that we had gone astray, aud wandered into one of the many cross-roads which intersected the heath. I remembered that the road I had traversed before was a gentle rise all the way; X now found myself desceuning into a hollow, and in the distauce I couid hear the rush of a deep aud rapid stream. The path was full of ruts and holes, and the mare stumbled at every step ; I drew rein, and was just about,to alight and lead her when an unexpected plunge ot hers saved me the trouble by pitching me neatly over her head. I " fell soft" -that was one comfortrather too soft, in fact, inasmuch as I alighted ' all in the beautiful middle," as the French say, of a sticky bog j and the worst of it wag that this unexpected somersault so muddled my topographical ideas, turning tliem all topsyturvy in my head, that- when X scram* ble i to my feet I found that I had completely lost my bearings, and ha 1 not the remotest notion in which direction lay the road from which I had strayed. As I stool h- sititing, with the reins in my hand, trying vainly to pierce the white darkness around me, aud listening to the stream, which, swollen by melted snow from the hills was rushing between its banks wiih tne noise of a mouutain-torrent, I heird the distant bark of a dog. I hallooed, but, receiving no answer, I resolved to proceed in the direction of the soumi, hoping it would lead me to a house of some sort. We had floundered along the cross-road for nearly half an-tiour when, to my great relief, I saw a light glimmering feebly through the snow a short dis tance ahead, and, on appr >«ciiing, found that it proceeded from the lower window of a house by the wayside, streaming in ale gray through an aperture in the closed shutters. Finding my way with soma difficulty to the the front door, I rapped with the handle of my whip. There was a 'sound of hasty footsteps within, the scraping of chairs on a brick floor, and then, after a pause, a man's voice demanded, " Who s there ? " A traveller who has lost his way. Open the door."

After some rattling of bolts and bars the door opened, letting out a stream of ruddy firelight on to the snow, and the figures of two men appeared on the threshold—dark silhouettes relieved against a bright background. How far am I from Sefton on*the-Wold P I inquired. The men peered at me curiously, and the shorter o£ th j two, who had a lantern in his hand, raised it to my face and took a long look at me, keeping bis own features in the shadow.

" Sefton-on-the-Wold, sir P" he repeated at length, lowering the light, as if reassured by his inspection. " Jfou've come many a mi!e out of your way if you was going there. Why, it's right a' t'other side tho moor. This is tjie Beckley road you're on now. Beckley cross-road it's called, beiug a short cut to the town.

" Then Beckley is not far from here. " Nigh upon nine miles, and a very bad road. Won't you please to put up here for a night, sir P" he added, after a pause. "la this an innP" I asked in aurprise. "' The Moorfowl/ kept by Simon Black, lock," muttered the man who had not yet spoken. " Well, it ain't exactly an inn," explained the other, its a sort of half-way house. But we're got a good bed, and a nice dry ahed where we could make shift to put up the horse. Sliall my son take it sir P" I ht-si'ated. Remembering what I carried about me, 1 was naturally reluctant to trust mywlf in a strange inn j but I was ao coid and tired, and the road was ao long, and the warmth and fireligiit were so inviting, that I decided to take advantage of the shelter.

" I will see the horse put up myself," I said) " show me to the s'able."

(To be continued.)

German photographers are now making photographs of lightning. They art said to be striking likeawisi.