During the preceding year there had been an immense emigration from the eastern states. Kansas and Nebraska were in rapid progress of settlement, and during the season which followed the events I have described, the wave of civilization had almost touched the Castle. We were not out of the reach nor out of the influence of this tide of emigration. Twice as many steamboats went up the river, carrying emigrants and goods on their way to Oregon. In July I had sold all my wood, and after haying we went to work in the forest to obtain a new supply. By September the hot sun of our southern slope had rendered it fit for steamboat use. In the mean time, we managed to obtain a supply of dry wood sufficient to meet the demand, by obtaining a double-handed saw, and cutting up the logs and drift-wood brought down by the rivers.

During the season we sold wood to the amount of seven hundred dollars, which was equally divided between Kit and me, for Mr. Gracewood refused his share. We all worked hard, but we were very happy. Mrs. Gracewood, lady as she was in the city, was busy all the time, and even Ella declared that she found a new delight in working. I ought to say that, after our corn and potatoes were planted, all the rest of the work in the field was done with the horses. We planted in hills, and covered with the plough. The first weeding was done with the cultivator, and in the light alluvial soil of the clearing it was easy work even for a boy like me to use it alone. Firefly was well trained, and understood his business perfectly.

At the second weeding, I ran the cultivator through the long rows and the cross rows, and then, with the small plough, threw the soil up against the plants. We did not use a hoe except in the vegetable garden. We got along so well that I was only sorry we had not planted twice as many acres.

September and October were busy months to us; but we revelled in the joys of a plentiful harvest. Three hundred bushels of corn, and four hundred of potatoes, rewarded our toil, besides more than we could use of garden vegetables. This was three times as much as we had ever raised in a season before, and we had not room for it in our barn and storehouse. We could not use a quarter of the potatoes, even if we all remained at the farm through winter. We offered them for sale to the steamers and traders, and sold three hundred bushels to a speculator, who doubled his money on them at a settlement, where the people had come too late to make a crop that season.

The cool weather was coming, and, after we had slaughtered our pigs, the hard work of the season was over. The Gracewoods had decided not to remain over winter, and I could not think of parting with them. I was determined to see the world. I heard so much of the country below that I could not resist the temptation to visit it. I stated my intention to Kit Cruncher and the Gracewoods. None of them offered any objections, not even the hunter, who was to be left alone.



CHAPTER XXVI.

IN WHICH PHIL, WITH HIS FORTUNE AS A FARMER, BIDS FAREWELL TO FIELD AND FOREST.

"This place is wuth money, boy," said Kit Cruncher, when I had told him what I intended to do.

"The more it is worth, the better it will be for you, Kit," I replied.

"I'm willin' to pay for the place and the improvements. I've made well on it this year—more'n ever I could trappin'. Then, you see, the settlements is workin' up this way, and another year I shall hev 'em all round me."

"All right; hope you'll make your fortune, Kit."

"But I want to buy you out."

"I don't think I have any rights here which I can sell. You are welcome to everything that belongs to me. But I will leave the whole matter to Mr. Gracewood. I know he will do what is fair."

"Just as you say, Phil. This life jest suits me, now I'm gittin' old, and don't want to tramp through the woods no more. It's a good sitooation for me, and I shall be lucky to get it at any fair price. I shan't want it long, and when I've done with it, yon kin hev it agin, for I hain't no relations to fight over what I leave behind me."

"How long have you lived in the woods, Kit?" I asked; for, though I had known him from my childhood, I had no knowledge of his antecedents.

"Nigh on to thirty years, boy."

"Where did you come from?"

"I was born and raised down in Kaintuck. My father died when I was young, and I took to the river for a livin'. I worked a choppin', a flat boatin', and firin' on a steamboat. I was down in Loosiana one time, on a plantation, when the owner's cub—and he war wus nor any bar's cub I ever see—tied up a black woman who had been sick, because she didn't do all her stent. He wanted me to lick her. I told him I wouldn't do it, no how. This made him mad, and he struck me. I knocked him down with my fist quicker'n you could wink. He got up, and kim at me with a knife. I hit him with a heavy stick on the head. He dropped, and didn't move no more."

"Did yon kill him?" I asked, deeply interested in the narrative.

"I dunno; I don't reckon I did. But I feared I hed; but whether I hed or not, it would have been all the same with me. It mought have cost me my life if they'd cotched me, and I left. I travelled across the country till I came to the Ark'saw River, and thar I went to work agin firin' on a steamer. When I got money enough I bought my rifle, and traps, and went into the woods. I hev tramped all over the pararies, and in the end I fotched up here."

"Have you always lived alone?"

"Allus; I hedn't no 'fection for them pesky half breeds, nor them French Kanucks nuther. They are thick enough all along the river, and I allus kep away from 'em. I reckon I got more bufler hides nor any on 'em; but the critters is druv off now. I sold a good many skins of all sorts, and as I never drunk no liquor, I've got the money now. I fotched it down with me t'other day."

"Shall you ever return to Kentucky?"

"I don't reckon I shall; but I mought."

"What became of your mother?"

"She died long afore I kim off. Now, boy, I kin live jest as I want to here, and I'll buy your farm."

"We will talk with Mr. Gracewood about it. I will do whatever he says is right."

My fortunes as a farmer were certainly very satisfactory, and I had no reason to complain. I was to leave my Field and Forest with about fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket; and I could not but ask myself whether I was not going from a certainty to an uncertainty. Farming, in connection with the wood business, had paid well. But then I wanted to see something of the great world, of which I had heard so much. I had a decided taste for some mechanical calling, and I was sure that I could make my way in life if I had fair play. Yet, if my prospects had been far less favorable, I could not have endured the separation from the Gracewoods.

Leaving Kit in the Castle, thinking over his future operations, I went to the house of Mr. Gracewood, in order to consult him in regard to the disposal of the farm. I found him with his pipe in his mouth, playing on the grand piano, and lost in the inspiration of the "Gloria." I could not interrupt him, and I waited till he had finished, which, however, was not till his pipe was exhausted.

"Phil, I must take this piano with me; but we have not force enough to put it in the box."

"I think we have, sir," I replied. "If you say it must go, it shall be at the landing when the steamer comes down."

"Two men and a boy cannot put it into the box, to say nothing of loading it upon the wagon."

"I think we can, sir, if we have time enough; for, as you taught me, what is gained in power is lost in time. I will take the job, sir."

"You are very confident, Phil Farringford," added Mr. Gracewood, with a smile.

"I got up the plan by which we brought it over here from the island."

"But you had a dozen men to lift it up and put it in the box."

"As we haven't a dozen now, we can do it with two men and a boy, if we have time. The next boat will not come down for a week. But I wanted to see you about another matter. Kit wants to buy the farm of me, and I don't think I own it. We left the decision to you."

"Legally, you have no rights here."

"That is what I said."

"If Matt Rockwood has any heirs, they can obtain whatever legal rights he had in the premises."

"Matt owns the quarter section, as an actual settler. I found the paper signed by a land agent."

"Then his heirs, if he has any, can claim it, as well as all his property."

"Then you think I have no right to the money found in Matt's chest?"

"So long as no heirs appear, I think you have a moral right to keep it."

"Then Kit can have the place."

"I do not think it would be right for you to sell it. You cannot give him a legal title to it. But it is right for him to pay you for your share of the produce now on the place."

This seemed to me to be a fair and just decision, and I repeated it to Kit, who was, of course, entirely satisfied. It was agreed that he should pay me one hundred dollars for my share, and the business was completed. Mr. Gracewood presented him, as a free gift, the house and all it contained, except the piano, books, and other articles which were strictly personal. The barge was included in the gift, and Kit suddenly became a rich man, in his own estimation.

In a box, which Mr. Gracewood gave me, I packed up all the articles I intended to take with me, including the child's suit and some of Matt's papers. My money, except a reasonable sum for expenses, I placed in the hands of Mr. Gracewood, who gave me a note for the amount. I meant to take my rifle with me, as a memorial of my life in the woods. As Kit took care of the horses and pigs now, I had a great deal of time for idle dreaming. I went to all the familiar localities in the vicinity with Ella. While I was sad at the thought of leaving the haunts of my childhood, I was excited by the prospect of seeing new and strange sights. A new life seemed to be opening upon me, and the indefinite wonders of the civilized world flitted wildly through my mind.

"Well, Phil Farringford, if we are going to move the piano, it is about time to begin," said Mr. Gracewood, one morning.

"I am all ready, sir."

"I do not yet see how it is to be done; but I will leave the job to you."

"We shall be obliged to take down a part of the house—one end and a portion of the floor."

"That can very easily be done."

I sawed four cotton-wood sticks so that they would just reach from the ground to the timbers of the attic floor. We placed them in position to support the frame above, which was to bear the weight of the piano during the process of loading it upon the wagon. I then placed a couple of hewn sticks across the attic floor, after removing the boards. Two stout ropes were then passed around the piano and over these sticks, drawn tight. The piano-case was protected from chafing by a couple of blankets.

Kit and I then went into the attic, and with a lot of wedges I had made, proceeded to raise the two hewn timbers, over which the rope passed. We drove the wedges between the sticks and the timbers of the frame. As fast as we gained an inch, we put a board under, upon which we drove another series of wedges. The process was slow but it was sure, and in time the piano below hung suspended clear of the floor.

"That's all very good, so far, Phil Farringford," laughed Mr. Gracewood.

"Is it clear of the floor, sir?" I asked.

"Yes, all clear."

"Then we will take off the legs."

When this task was accomplished, we took up the floor and joists under the instrument, and removed the sill on the end of the house. Of course we had to take out the studs below the plate; but the posts I had put in were amply sufficient to support the frame. We levelled down the banking so as to form a smooth road to the ground beneath the piano. I then carefully measured the distance from the bottom of the piano to the earth. It was four feet and one inch, while the body of the wagon, which I intended to back under the instrument, was only two feet and a half high. We laid down some logs crosswise, upon which we placed a track of boards for the wheels of the wagon. The vehicle was then backed beneath the piano, with the box upon the platform. The oil-cloth was placed in the case, so that we could cover the instrument after it had been deposited in the box.

Kit and I had hewn four timbers of the length of the wagon, on opposite sides, like a railroad sleeper. Raising the vehicle with levers, we placed these sticks under the wheels. As we lifted up the wagon, the box was elevated so as to enclose the instrument. The timbers under the wheels were each about six inches thick, and when we had them in position, the bottom of the piano was not an inch from the bottom of the case. We then drove our wedges between the two timbers, on each of which rested two of the wheels, securely blocked. The wagon rose till the ropes which supported the piano were slackened, and we untied and removed them. The instrument rested on heavy pads in the bottom of the box, so that we had no trouble in pulling out the ropes. Covering the piano with the oil-cloth, we screwed on the lid of the case. By this time it was dark, though we had begun early in the morning.

The next day we made an inclined plane of cotton-wood sticks, upon which to run the wagon down upon level ground. This we did by hand, and then we were ready to hitch on the horses. We did not intend to haul it down to the landing till we heard the whistle of the steamer, for the boat would wait a whole day for half a ton of freight on her down trip. But it was three days more before we heard any whistle.

After we had restored the house to its former condition, Ella and I wandered in the woods and along the banks of the river, waiting impatiently for the expected signal. I had dressed myself in my best clothes, discarding forever my hunting-frock and skin cap. I thought I was a pretty good-looking fellow, and Ella said as much as this to me.

At last we heard the whistle, and Kit and I hastened to hitch on the horses. We placed all the baggage on the wagon with the piano-case, and for the last time I drove old Firefly and Cracker down to the landing. A dozen men lifted the piano from the wagon, and placed it on the deck of the steamer. The trunks and other baggage were carried on board; and, after the deck hands had taken in twenty cords of wood, the whistle sounded again.

"Good by, Kit," said I, as I grasped his rough hand. "May God bless and keep you. I hope I shall see you again."

"It mought be, and it mought not; leastwise I don't reckon you will, if you don't come here. But good by, boy. I hope everything will allus go well with you; and if you kin, just kim up here and see me. Good by, boy."

Kit displayed more emotion than I had ever seen him exhibit before, and I found it difficult to suppress a rising tear. Mr. Gracewood and his family shook hands with him, and left their best wishes for his future prosperity and happiness.

"Good by, Mr. Greasewood. You are a good man, and you will allus be happy. Don't forget old Kit."

"I never shall," protested Mr. Gracewood, as the old hunter stepped on shore; and that was the sentiment in all our hearts.

The bell rang, the boat started, and we waved our adieus to the old man on shore, who stood gazing solemnly and sadly at us. The wheels of the steamer were turning, and as I gazed upon the familiar shore, I realized that I was departing, perhaps forever, from my FIELD AND FOREST.

THE END