It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. He would get very cross one evening and no one would dare to remind him of it.
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