It was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered uncle.

On the way home the Squire talked of the momentous November elections and of his dread of the future with Buchanan in power, while he led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm.
"We will cross the fields," he said, and dismounting took down the upper bars of a fence.

Then he rode back a little, and returning took the low fence, crying, "Now, John, sit like a sack--loosely.

The mare jumps like a frog; go back a bit.

Now, then, give her her head!" For a moment he was in the air as his uncle cried, "You lost a stirrup.