The Night of Endless Pines

She had never known anything save this strained driving on. Jeff and
Milt were old tales, and untrue. Was it ten hours before that she had
cooked dinner beside the road? No matter. She wasn't hungry any longer.
She would never reach the next town--and she didn't care. It wasn't she,
but a grim spirit which had entered her dead body, that kept steering,
feeding gas, watching the road.

In the darkness outside the funnel of light from her lamps were shadows
that leaped, and gray hands hastily jerked back out of sight behind tree
trunks as she came up; things that followed her, and hidden men waiting
for her to stop.

As drivers will, she tried to exorcise the creeping fear by singing. She
made up what she called her driving-song. It was intended to echo the
hoofs of a fat old horse on a hard road: The old horse trots with a jog, jog, jog,
And a jog, jog, jog; and a jog, jog, jog.
And the old road makes a little jog, jog, jog,
To the west, jog, jog; and the north, jog, jog.
While the farmer drinks some cider from his jug, jug, jug,
From his coy jug, jug; from his joy jug, jug.
Till he accumulates a little jag, jag, jag,
And he jigs, jigs, jigs, with his jug, jug, jug---The song was a comfort, at first--then a torment. She drove to it, and
she steered to it, and when she tried to forget, it sang itself in her
tired brain: "Jog, jog, jog--oh, damn!"