Drew Anderson Jersey

"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

"Some of our boys attacked by a rabbit," I suggested, but still hearkened.

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

No, he would not; only wagons went that way, to cross the creek by a small bridge. I could cut off nearly two miles by taking the bridle-path that turned sharply down into the thick woods of the creek-bottom about a quarter of a mile from the house and crossed the stream at a sandy ford. "Ride round," he said, "and I'll show you from the front of the house."

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