"Then your view is that the end of education is to make a young person do right?"

"No, my good friend, pardon me if I speak plain. The end of education is not to make young people do right, but to train the young heart to love to do right; to make right doing the nature and habit of life."

"How would you begin?"

"As that boy has begun. He has made every heart on the ground feel for that broken-shelled turtle. That boy will one day become a leader among men. He has a heart. The head may make friends, but only the heart can hold them. It is the heart-power that serves and rules. The best thing that can be said of any one is, 'He is true-hearted.' I like that boy. He is true-hearted. His first client a turtle, it may not be his last. Train him well. He will honor you some day."

The boys took the turtle to the pond and left him on the bank. Jasper watched them. He then turned to the backwoods teacher, and said:

"That, sir, is the result of right education. First teach character; second, life; third, books. Let education begin in the heart, and everybody made to feel that right makes might."



CHAPTER V.

JASPER COBBLES FOR AUNT OLIVE.—HER QUEER STORIES.

Aunt Olive Eastman had made herself a relative to every one living between the two Pigeon Creeks. She had formed this large acquaintance with the pioneers by attending the camp-meetings of the Methodists and the four-days' meetings of the Baptists in southern Indiana, and the school-house meetings everywhere. She was a widow, was full of rude energy and benevolence, had a sharp tongue, a kindly heart, and a measure of good sense. But she was "far from perfect," as she used to very humbly acknowledge in the many pioneer meetings that she attended.

"I make mistakes sometimes," she used to say, "and it is because I am a fallible creatur'."

She was an always busy woman, and the text of her life was "Work," and her practice was in harmony with her teaching.

"Work, work, my friends and brethren," she once said in the log school-house meeting. "Work while the day is passin'. We's all children of the clay. To-day we're here smart as pepper-grass, and to-morrer we're gone like the cucumbers of the ground. Up, and be doin'—up, and be doin'!"

One morning Jasper the Tunker appeared in the clearing before her cabin. She stood in the door as he appeared, shading her eyes with one hand and holding a birch broom in the other. The sunset was flooding the swollen creek in the distance, and shimmering in the tops of the ancient trees. Jasper turned to the door.

"This is a lovely morning," said he. "The heavens are blue above us. I hope that you are well."

"The top of the morning to you! You are a stranger that I met the other day, I suppose. I've been hopin' you'd come along and see me. Where do you hail from, anyway? Come in and tell me all about it."

"I am a German," said Jasper, entering. "I came from Germany to Pennsylvania, and went from there to Ohio, and now I am here, as you see."

"How far are you goin'? Or are you just goin' to stop with us here? Southern Injiany is a goodly country. 'Tis all land around here, for millions of miles, and free as the air. Perhaps you'll stop with us."

"I am going to Rock Island, on the Mississippi River, across the prairie of the Illinois."

"Who are you now, may it please you? What's your callin'? Tell me all about it, now. I want to know."

"I am one of the Brethren, as I said. I preach and teach and cobble. I came here now to ask you if you had any shoe-making for me to do."

"One of the Tunkers—a Tunker, one o' them. Don't belong to no sect, nor nothin', but just preaches to everybody as though everybody was alike, and wanders about everywhere, as if you owned the whole world, like the air. I've seen several Tunkers in my day. They are becomin' thick in these woods. Well, I believe such as you mean well—let's be charitable; we haven't long to live in this troublesome world. I'm fryin' doughnuts; am just waitin' for the fat to heat. Hope you didn't think that I was wastin' time, standin' there at the door? I'll give you some doughnuts as soon as the fat is hot—fresh ones and good ones, too. I make good doughnuts, just such as Martha used to make in Jerusalem. I've fried doughnuts for a hundred ministers in my day, and they all say that my doughnuts are good, whatever they may think of me. Come in. I'm proper glad to see ye."

Jasper sat down in the kitchen of the cabin. The room was large, and had a delightful atmosphere of order and neatness. Over the fire swung an immense iron crane, and on the crane were pot-hooks of various sizes, and on one of these hung a kettle of bubbling fat.

The table was spread with a large dish of dough, a board called a kneading-board, a rolling-pin, and a large sheet of dough which had been rolled into its present form by the rolling-pin, which utensil was white with flour.

"I knew you were comin'," said Aunt Olive. "I dropped my rollin'-pin this mornin'; it's a sure sign. You said that you are goin' to Rock Island. The Injuns live there, don't they? What are ye goin' there for?"

"Black Hawk has invited me. He has promised to let me have an Indian guide, or runner, who can speak English and interpret. I'm going to teach among the tribes, the Lord willing, and I want a guide and an interpreter."

"Black Hawk? He was born down in Kaskaskia, the old Jesuit town, 'way back almost a century ago, wasn't he? Or was it in the Sac village? He was a Pottawattomie, I'm told, and then I've heard he wasn't. Now he's chief of the Sacs and Foxes. I saw him once at a camp-meetin'. His face is black as that pot and these hooks and trummels. How he did skeer me! Do you dare to trust him? Like enough he'll kill ye, some day. I don't trust no Injuns. Where did you stay last night?"

"At Mr. Lincoln's."

"Tom Linken's. Pretty poor accommodations you must have had. They're awful poor folks. Mrs. Linken is a nice woman, but Tom he is shiftless, and he's bringin' up that great tall boy Abe to be lazy, too. That boy is good to his mother, but he all runs to books and larnin', just as some turnips all run to tops. You've seen 'em so, haven't ye?"

"But the boy has got character, and character is everything in this world."

"Did you notice anything peculiarsome about him? His cousin, Dennis Hanks, says there's something peculiarsome about him. I never did."

"My good woman, do you believe in gifts?"

"No, I believe in works. I believe in people whose two fists are full of works. Mine are, like the Marthas of old."

Aunt Olive rolled up her sleeves, and began to cut the thin layer of dough with a knife into long strips, which she twisted.

"I'm goin' to make some twisted doughnuts," she said, "seein' you're a preacher and a teacher."

"I think that young lad Lincoln has some inborn gift, and that he will become a leader among men. It is he who is willing to serve that rules, and they who deny themselves the most receive the most from Heaven and men. He has sympathetic wisdom. I can see it. There is something peculiar about him. He is true."

"Oh, don't you talk that way. He's lazy, and he hain't got any calculation, 'n' he'll never amount to shucks, nor nothin'. He's like his father, his head in the air. Somethin' don't come of nothin' in this world; corn don't grow unless you plant it; and when you add nothin' to nothin' it just makes nothin'.

"Well, preacher, you've told me who you are, and now I'll tell ye who I am. But first, let me say, I'll have a pair of shoes. I have my own last. I'll get it for you, and then you can be peggin' away, so as not to lose any time. It is wicked to waste time. 'Work' is my motto. That's what time is made for."

Aunt Olive got her last. The fat was hot by this time—"all sizzlin'," as she said.

"There, preacher, this is the last, and there is the board on which my husband used to sew shoes, wax and all. Now I will go to fryin' my doughnuts, and you and I can be workin' away at the same time, and I'll tell ye who I am. Work away—work away!

"I'm a widder. You married? A widower? Well, that ain't nothin' to me. Work away—work away!

"I came from old Hingham, near Boston. You've heard of Boston? That was before I was married. Our family came to Ohio first, then we heard that there was better land in Injiany, and we moved on down the Ohio River and came here. There was only one other family in these parts at that time. That was folks by the name of Eastman. They had a likely smart boy by the name of Polk—Polk Eastman. He grew up and became lonesome. I grew up and became lonesome, and so we concluded that we'd make a home together—here it is—and try to cheer each other. Listenin', be ye? Yes? Well, my doughnuts are fryin' splendid. Work away—work away!

"A curious time we had of it when we went to get married. There was a minister named Penney, who preached in a log church up in Kentuck, and we started one spring mornin', something like this, to get him to marry us. We had but one horse for the journey. I rode on a kind of a second saddle behind Polk, and we started off as happy as prairie plovers. A blue sky was over the timber, and the bushes were all alive with birds, and there were little flowers runnin' everywhere among the new grass and the moss. It seemed as though all the world was for us, and that the Lord was good. I've seen lots of trouble since then. My heart has grown heavy with sorrow. It was then as light as air. Work away!

"Well, the minister Penney lived across the Kentuck, and when we came to the river opposite his place the water was so deep that we couldn't ford it. There had been spring freshets. It was an evenin' in April. There was a large moon, and the weather was mild and beautiful. We could see the pine-knots burnin' in Parson Penney's cabin, so that we knew that he was there, but didn't see him.

"'What are we to do now?' Polk said he. 'We'll have to go home again,' banterin'-like."

"'Holler,' said I. 'Blow the horn!' We had taken a horn along with us. He gave a piercin' blast, and I shouted out, 'Elder Penney! Elder Penney!'

"The door of the cabin over the river opened, and the elder came out and stood there, mysterious-like, in the light of the fire.

"'Who be ye?' he called. 'Hallo! What is wanted?'

"'We're comin' to be married!' shouted Polk. 'Comin' to be married—married! How shall we get across the river?'

"'The ford's too deep. Can't be done. Who be ye?' shouted the elder.

"'I'm Polk Eastman—Polk Eastman!' shouted Polk.

"'I'm Olive Pratt—Olive Pratt—Olive!' shouted I.

"'Well, you just stay where you be, and I'll marry you there.'

"So he began shouting at the top of his voice:

"'Do you, Olive Pratt, take that there man, over there on the horse, to be your husband? Hey?'

"I shouted back, 'Yes, sir!'

"'Do you, Polk Eastman, take that there woman, over there on the horse, to be your wife?'

"Polk shouted back, 'Yes, elder, that is what I came for!'

"'Then,' shouted the minister, 'join your right hands.'

"Polk put up his hand over his shoulder, and I took it; and the horse, seein' his advantage, went to nibblin' young sprouts. The elder then shouted:

"'I pronounce you husband and wife. You can go home now, and I'll make a record of it, and my wife shall witness it. Good luck to you! Let us pray.'



"Polk hitched up the reins and the horse stood still. How solemn it seemed! The woods were still and shady. You could hear the water rushing in the timber. The full moon hung in the clear sky over the river, and seemed to lay on the water like a sparkling boat. I was happy then. On our journey home we were chased by a bear. I don't think that the bear would have hurt us, but the scent of him frightened the horse and made him run like a deer.

"Well, we portaged a stream at midnight, just as the moon was going down. We made our curtilage here, and here we lived happy until husband died of a fever. I'm a middlin' good woman. I go to all the meetin's round, and wake 'em up. I've got a powerful tongue, and there isn't a lazy bone in my whole body. Work away—work away! That's the way to get along in the world. Peg away!"

While Aunt Olive had been relating this odd story, John Hanks, a cousin of the Lincolns, had come quietly to the door, and entered and sat down beside the Tunker. He had come to Indiana from Kentucky when Abraham was fourteen years of age, and he made his home with the Lincolns for four years, when he went to Illinois, and was enthused by the wonders of prairie farming. It was Uncle John who gave to Abraham Lincoln the name of rail-splitter. He loved the boy Lincoln, and led his heart away to the rich prairies of Illinois a few years after the present scenes.

"He and I," he once said of Abraham, "worked barefooted, grubbed, plowed, mowed, and cradled together. When we returned from the field, he would snatch a piece of corn-bread, sit down on a chair, with his feet elevated, and read. He read constantly."

This man had heard Aunt Olive—Indiana, or "Injiany," he called her—relate her marriage experiences many times. He was not interested in the old story, but he took a keen delight in observing the curiosity and surprise that such a novel tale awakened in the mind of the Tunker.

"This is very extraordinary," said the Tunker, "very extraordinary. We do not have in Germany any stories like that. I hardly know what my people would say to such a story as that. This is a very extraordinary country—very extraordinary."

"I can tell you a wedding story worth two o' that," said Uncle John Hanks. "Why, that ain't nowhere to it.—Now, Aunt Injiany, you wait, and set still. I'm goin' to tell the elder about the 'TWO TURKEY-CALLS.'"

The Tunker only said, "This is all very extraordinary." Uncle John crossed his legs and bent forward his long whiskers, stretched out one arm, and was about to begin, when Aunt Olive said:

"You wait, John Hanks—you wait. I'm goin' to tell the elder that there story myself."

John Hanks never disputed with Aunt Olive.

"Well, tell it," said he, and the backwoods woman began:

"'Tis a master-place to get married out here. There's a great many more men than women in the timber, and the men get lonesome-like, and no man is a whole man without a wife. Men ought not to live alone anywhere. They can not out here. Well, well, the timber is full of wild turkeys, especially in the fall of the year, but they are hard to shoot. The best way to get a shot at a turkey is by a turkey-call. You never heard one, did you? You are not to blame for bein' ignorant. It is like this—"

Aunt Indiana put her hands to her mouth like a shell, and blew a low, mysterious whistle.

"Well, there came a young settler from Kentucky and took up a claim on Pigeon Creek; and there came a widow from Ohio and took a claim about three miles this side of him, and neither had seen the other. Well, well, one shiny autumn mornin' each of them took in to their heads to go out turkey-huntin', and curiously enough each started along the creek toward each other. The girl's name was Nancy, and the man's name was Albert. Nancy started down the creek, and Albert up the creek, and each had a right good rifle.

"Nancy stood still as soon as she found a hollow place in the timber, put up her hand—so—and made a turkey-call—so—and listened.

"Albert heard the call in the hollow timber, though he was almost a mile away, and he put up his hands—so—and answered—so.

"'A turkey,' said Nancy, said she. 'I wish I had a turkey to cook.'

"'A turkey,' said Albert, said he. 'I wish I had some one at home to cook a turkey.'

"Then each stole along slowly toward the other, through the hollow timber.

"It was just a lovely mornin'. Jays were callin', and nuts were fallin', and the trees were all yellow and red, and the air put life into you, and made you feel as though you would live forever.

"Well, they both of them stopped again, Nancy and Albert. Nancy she called—so—and Albert—so.

"'A turkey, sure,' said Nancy.

"'A turkey, sure,' said Albert.

"Then each went forward a little, and stopped and called again.

"They were so near each other now that each began to hide behind the thicket, so that neither might scare the turkey.

"Well, each was scootin' along with head bowed—so—gun in hand—so—one wishin' for a husband and one for a wife, and each for a good fat turkey, when what should each hear but a voice in a tree! It was a very solemn voice, and it said:

"'Quit!'

"Each thought there was a scared turkey somewhere, and each became more stealthy and cautious, and there was a long silence.

"At last Nancy she called again—so—and Albert he answered her—so—and each thought there was a turkey within shootin' distance, and each crept along a little nearer each other.

"At last Nancy saw the bushes stir a few rods in front of her, and raised her gun into position, still hiding in the tangle. Albert discovered a movement in front of him, and he took the same position.

"Nancy was sure she could see something dark before her, and that it must be the turkey in the tangle. She put her finger on the lock of the gun, when a voice in the air said:

"'Quit!'

"'It's a turkey in the tops of the timber,' thought she, 'and he is watchin' me, and warnin' the other turkey.'

"Albert, too, was preparin' to shoot in the tangle when the command from the tree-top came. Each thought it would be well to reconnoiter a little, so as to get a better shot.

"Nancy kneeled down on the moss among the red-berry bushes, and peeked cautiously through an openin' in the tangle. What was that?

"A hat? Yes, it was a hat!

"Albert he peeked through another openin', and his heart sunk like a stone within him. What was that? A bonnet? Yes, it was a bonnet!

"Was ever such a thing as that seen before in the timber? Bears had been seen, and catamounts, and prairie wolves, but a bonnet! He drew back his gun. Just then there came another command from the tree-top:

"'Quit!'

"Now, would you believe it? Well, two guns were discharged at that turkey in the tree, and it came tumblin' down, a twenty-pounder, dead as a stone.

"Nancy run toward it. Albert run towards it.

"'It's yourn,' said Nancy.

"'It's yourn,' said Albert.

"Each looked at the other.

"Nancy looked real pink and pretty, and Albert he looked real noble and handsome-like.

"'I'm thinkin',' said Albert, 'it kind o' belongs to both of us.'

"'So I think, too,' said Nancy, said she. 'Come over to my cabin and I'll cook it for ye. I'm an honest girl, I am.'

"The two went along as chipper as two squirrels. The creek looked really pretty to 'em, and the prairie was all a-glitter with frost, and the sky was all pleasant-like, and you know the rest. There, now. They're livin' there yet. Just like poetry—wasn't it, now?"

"Very extraordinary," said the Tunker, "very! I never read a novel like that. Very extraordinary!"

A tall, lank, wiry boy came up to the door.

"Abe, I do declare!" said Aunt Olive. "Come in. I'm makin' doughnuts, and you sha'n't have one of them. I make Scriptur' doughnuts, and the Scriptur' says if a man spends his time porin' over books, of which there is no end, neither shall he eat, or somethin' like that—now don't it, elder?—But seein' it's you, Abe, and you are a pretty good boy, after all, when people are in trouble, and sick and such, I'll make you an elephant. There ain't any elephants in Injiany."

Aunt Olive cut a piece of doughnut dough in the shape of a picture-book elephant and tossed it into the fat. It swelled up to enormous proportions, and when she scooped it out with a ladle it was, for a doughnut, an elephant indeed.

"Now, Abe, there's your elephant.—And, elder, here's a whole pan full of twisted doughnuts. You said that you were goin' to meet Black Hawk. Where does he live? Tell us all about him."

"I will do so, my good woman," said Jasper. "I want you to be interested in my Indian missions. When I come this way again, I shall be likely to bring with me an Indian guide, an uncommon boy, I am told. You shall hear my story."



CHAPTER VI.

JASPER GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF HIS VISIT TO BLACK HAWK.—AUNT INDIANA'S WIG.

Aunt Indiana, Jasper, John Hanks, and young Abraham Lincoln sat between the dying logs in the great fireplace and the open door. The company was after a little time increased for Thomas Lincoln came slowly into the clearing, and saying, "How-dy?" and "The top of the day to ye all," sat down in the sunshine on the log step; and soon after came Dennis Hanks and dropped down on a puncheon.

"I think that you are misled," said Jasper, "when you say that Black Hawk was born at Kaskaskia. If I remember rightly, he said to me: 'I was born in this Sac village. Here I spent my youth; my fathers' graves are here, and the graves of my children, and here where I was born I wish to die.' Rock Island, as the northern islands, rapids, and bluffs of the Mississippi are called, is a very beautiful place. Black Hawk clings to the spot as to his life. 'I love to look down,' he said, 'upon the big rivers, shady groves, and green prairies from the graves of my fathers,' and I do not wonder at this feeling. His blood is the same and his rights are the same as any other king, and he loves Nature and has a heart.

"It is my calling to teach and preach among the Indians and new towns of Illinois. This call came to me in Pennsylvania. God willed it, and I had no will but to obey. I heard the Voice within, just as I heard it in Germany on the Rhine. There it said, 'Go to America.' In Pennsylvania it said, 'Go to the Illinois.'

"I went. I have walked all the way, teaching and preaching in the log school-houses. I sowed the good seed, and left the harvest to the heavens. Why should I be anxious in regard to the result? I walk by faith, and I know what the result will be in God's good time, without seeking for it. Why should I stop to number the people? I know.

"I wanted an Indian guide and interpreter, and the inward Voice told me to go to Black Hawk and secure one from the chief himself. So I went to the bluffs of the Mississippi, and told Black Hawk all my heart, and he let me preach in his lodges, and I made some strong winter shoes for him, and tried to teach the children by signs. So I was fed by the ravens of the air. He had no interpreter or runner such as he would trust to go with me; but he told me if I would return in the May moon, he would provide me one. He said that it would be a boy by the name of Waubeno, whose father was a noble warrior and had had a strange and mysterious history. The boy was then traveling with an old uncle by the name of Main-Pogue. These names sound strange to German ears: Waubeno and Main-Pogue! I promised to return in May. I am on my way.

"If I get the boy Waubeno—and the Voice within tells me that I will—I intend to travel a circuit, round and round, round and round, teaching and preaching. I can see my circuit now in my mind. This is the map of it: From Rock Island to Fort Dearborn (Chicago); from Fort Dearborn to the Ohio, which will bring me here again; and from the Ohio to the Mississippi, and back to Rock Island, and so round and round, round and round. Do you see?"

The homely travels of Thomas Lincoln and the limited geography of Andrew Crawford had not prepared Jasper's audience to see even this small circuit very distinctly. Thomas Lincoln, like the dwellers in the Scandinavian valleys, doubtless believed that there "are people beyond the mountains, also" but he knew little of the world outside of Kentucky and Illinois. Mrs. Eastman was quite intelligent in regard to New England and the Middle States, but the West to her mind was simply land—"oceans of it," as she expressed herself—"where every one was at liberty to choose without infringin' upon anybody."

"Don't you ever stop to build up churches?" said Mrs. Eastman to Jasper.

"No."

"You just baptize 'em, and let 'em run. That's what I can't understand. I can't get at it. What are you really doin'? Now, say?"

"I am the Voice in the wilderness, preparing the way."

"No family name?"

"No. What have I to do with a name?"

"No money?"

"Only what I earn."

"That's queerer yet. Well, you are just the man to preach to the uninhabited places of the earth. Tell us more about Black Hawk. I want to hear of him, although we all are wastin' a pile of time when we all ought to be to work. Tell us about Black Hawk, and then we'll all up and be doin'. My fire is goin' out now."

"He's a revengeful critter, that Black Hawk," said Thomas Lincoln, "and you had better be pretty wary of him. You don't know Indians. He's a flint full of fire, so people say that come to the smithy. You look out."

"He has had his wrongs," said Jasper, "and he has been led by his animal nature to try to avenge them. Had he listened to the higher teachings of the soul, it might have been different. We should teach him."

"What was it that set him against white folks?" asked Mrs. Eastman.

"He told me the whole story," said Jasper, "and it made my heart bleed for him. He's a child of Nature, and has a great soul, but it needs a teacher. The Indians need teachers. I am sent to teach in the wilderness, and to be fed by the birds of the air. I am sent from over the sea. But listen to the tale of Black Hawk. You complain of your wrongs, don't you? Why should not he?

"Years ago Black Hawk had an old friend whom he dearly loved, for the friendships of Indians are ardent and noble. That friend had a boy, and Black Hawk loved this boy and adopted him as his own, and became as a father to him, and taught him to hunt and to go to war. When Black Hawk joined the British he wished to take this boy with him to Canada; but his own father said that he needed him to care for him in his old age, to fish and to hunt for him. He said, moreover, that he did not like his boy to fight against the Americans, who had always treated him kindly. So Black Hawk left the boy with his old father.

"On his return to Rock River and the bluffs of the Mississippi, after the war on the lakes, and as he was approaching his own town in the sunset, he chanced to notice a column of white smoke curling from a hollow in one of the bluffs. He stepped aside to see what was there. As he looked over the bluff he saw a fire, and an aged Indian sitting alone on a prayer-mat before it, as though humbling himself before the Great Spirit. He went down to the place and found that the man was his old friend.

"'How came you here?' asked Black Hawk. But, although the old Indian's lip moved, he received no answer.

"'What has happened?' asked Black Hawk.

"There was a pitiful look in the old man's eyes, but this was his only reply. The old Indian seemed scarcely alive. Black Hawk brought some water to him. It revived him. His consciousness and memory seemed to return. He looked up. With staring eyes he said, suddenly:

"'Thou art Black Hawk! O Black Hawk, Black Hawk, my old friend, he is gone!'

"'Who has gone?'

"'The life of my heart is gone, he whom you used to love. Gone, like a maple-leaf. Gone! Listen, O Black Hawk, listen.

"'After you went away to fight for the British, I came down the river at the request of the pale-faces to winter there. When I arrived I found that the white people had built a fort there. I went to the fort with my son to tell the people that we were friendly."

"'The white war-chief received me kindly, and told us that we might hunt on this side of the Mississippi, and that he would protect us. So we made our camp there. We lived happy, and we loved to talk of you, O Black Hawk!

"'We were there two moons, when my boy went to hunt one day, unsuspicious of any danger. We thought the white man spoke true. Night came, and he did not return. I could not sleep that night. In the morning I sent out the old woman to the near lodges to give an alarm, and say that my boy must be sought.

"'There was a band formed to hunt for him. Snow was on the ground, and they found his tracks—my boy's tracks. They followed them, and saw that he had been pursuing a deer to the river. They came upon the deer, which he had killed and left hanging on the branch of a tree. It was as he had left it.

"'But here they found the tracks of the white man. The pale-faces had been there, and had taken our boy prisoner. They followed the tracks and they found him. O Black Hawk! he was dead—my boy! The white men had murdered him for killing the deer near the fort; and the land was ours. His face was all shot to pieces. His body was stabbed through and through, and they had torn the hair from his head. They had tied his hands behind him before they murdered him. Black Hawk, my heart is dead. What do the hawks in the sky say?'

"The old Indian fell into a stupor, from which he soon expired. Black Hawk watched over his body during the night, and the next day he buried it upon the bluff. It was at that grave that Black Hawk listened to the hawks in the sky, and vowed vengeance against the white people forever, and summoned his warriors for slaughter."

"He's a hard Indian," said Thomas Lincoln. "Don't you trust Black Hawk. You don't know him."

"Hard? Yes, but did not your brother Mordecai make the same vow and follow the same course after the murder of your father by the Indians? A slayer of man is a slayer of man whoever and wherever he may be. May the gospel bring the day when the shedding of human blood will cease! But the times are still evil. The world waits still for the manifestation of the sons of God; as of old it waits. I have given all I am to the teaching of the gospel of peace. The Indians need it; you need it, all of you. You do the same things that the savages do."

"Just hear him!" said Aunt Indiana.—"Who are you preachin' to, elder? Callin' us savages! I'm an exhorter myself, I'd like to have you know. I could exhort you. Savages? We know Indians here better than you do. You wait."

"Let me tell you a story now," said Thomas Lincoln.

"Of course you will," said Aunt Indiana. "Thomas Lincoln never heard a story told without telling another one to match it; and Abe, here, is just like him. The thing that has been, is, as the Scriptur' says."

AN ASTONISHED INDIAN.

"Well," said Thomas Lincoln, "I hain't no faith at all, elder, in Injuns. I once knew of a woman in Kentuck, in my father's day, who knew enough for 'em, and the way that she cleared 'em out showed an amazin' amount of spirit. Women was women in Daniel Boone's time, in old Kentuck. The Injuns found 'em up and doin', and they learned to sidle away pretty rapid-like when they met a sun-bonnet.

"Well, as I was sayin', this was in my father's time. The Injuns were prowlin' about pretty plenty then, and one day one of 'em came, all feathers and paint, and whoops and prancin's, to a house owned by a Mr. Daviess, and found that the man of the house was gone.

"But the wimmin-folks were at home—Mrs. Daviess and the children. Well, the Injun came on like a champion, swingin' his tommyhawk and liftin' his heels high. The only weapon that the good woman had was a bottle of whisky.

"Well, whisky is a good weapon sometimes—there's many a man that has found it a slow gunpowder. Well, this woman, as I was sayin', had her wits about her. What do you think that she did?

"Well, she just brought out the whisky-bottle, and held it up before him—so. It made his eyes sparkle, you may be sure of that!

"'Fire-water,' said she, 'mighty temptin'.

"'Ugh!' said the Indian, all humps and antics and eyes.

"Ugh! Did you ever hear an Injun say that—'Ugh?'

"'Have some?' said she.

"Have some? Of course he did.

"She got a glass and put it on the table, and then she uncorked the bottle and handed it to him to pour out the whisky. He lost his wits at once.

"He set down his gun to pour out a dram, all giddy, when Mrs. Daviess seized the shooter and lifted it up quick as a flash and pointed to his head.

"'Set that down, or I'll fire! Set that bottle down!'

"The poor Injun's jaw dropped. He set down the bottle, looked wild, and begged for his life.

"'Set still,' said she; and he looked at the whisky-bottle and then slunk all up in a heap and remained silent as a dead man until Mr. Daviess came home, when he was allowed to crawl away into the forest. He gave one parting look at the bottle, but he never wanted to see a white woman again, I'll be bound."

"You ridicule the Indian for his love of whisky," said the Tunker, "but who taught him to love it? Woe unto the world because of offenses."

"Hello!" said John Hanks, starting up. "Here comes Johnnie Kongapod again, from the Illinois. I like to see any one from Illinois, even if he is an Indian. I'm goin' there myself some day. I've a great opinion of that there prairie country—hain't you, elder?"

"Yes, it is a garden of wild flowers that seems as wide as the sky. It can all be turned into green, and it will be some day."

Aunt Indiana greeted the Indian civilly, and the Tunker held out his hand to him.

"Elder," said Aunt Indiana, "I must tell you one of my own experiences, now that Johnnie Kongapod has come—the one that they bantered me about over to the smithy. Johnnie and I are old friends. I used to be a kind of travelin' preacher myself; I am now—I go to camp-meetin's, and I always do my duty.

"Well, a few years ago, durin' the Injun troubles, there was goin' to be a camp-meetin' on the Illinois side, and I wanted to go. Now, Johnnie Kongapod is a good Injun, and I arranged with him that he should go with me.

"You didn't know that I wore a wig, did ye, elder? No? Well, most people don't. I have had to wear a wig ever since I had the scarlet fever, when I was a girl. I'm kind o' ashamed to tell of it, I've so much nateral pride, but have to speak of it when I tell this story.

"Johnnie Kongapod never saw a wig before I showed him mine, and I never showed it to him until I had to.

"Well, he came over from Illinois, and we started off together to the camp-meetin'. It was a lovely time on the prairies. The grass was all ripe and wavin', and the creeks were all alive with ducks, and there were prairie chickens everywhere. I felt very brisk and chipper.

"We had two smart horses, and we cantered along. I sang hymns, and sort o' preached to Johnnie, when all at once we saw a shadow on the prairie like a cloud, and who should come ridin' up but three Injuns! I was terribly frightened. I could see that they were hostile Injuns—Sacs, from Black Hawk. One of them swung his tommyhawk in the air, and made signs that he was goin' to scalp me. Johnnie began to beg for me, and I thought that my last hour had come.

"The Injun wheeled his pony, rode away, then turned and came dashin' towards me, with tommyhawk lifted.

"'Me scalp!' said he, as he dashed by me. Then he turned his horse and came plungin' towards me again.

"Elder, what do you think I did? I snatched off my bonnet and threw it upon the ground. Then I grabbed my wig, held it up in the air, and when the Injun came rushin' by I held it out to him.

"'There it is,' said I.

"Well—would you believe it?—that Injun gave one glance at it, and put spurs to his horse, and he never stopped runnin' till he was out of sight. The two other Injuns took one look at my wig as I held it out in my hand.

"'Scalped herself!' said one.

"'Took her head off!' said the other. 'She conjur's!'

"They spurred their horses and flew over the prairie like the wind. And—and—must I say it?—Johnnie Kongapod—he ran too; and so I put on my wig, picked up my sun-bonnet, and turned and came home again.

"There are some doughnuts, Johnnie Kongapod, if you did desert me.

"Elder, this is a strange country. And don't you believe any stories about honest Injuns that the law condemns, and that go home to see their families overnight and return again; you will travel a long way, elder, before you find any people of that kind, Injuns or white folks. I know. I haven't lived fifty years in this troublesome world for nothin'. People who live up in the air, as you do, elder, have to come down. I'm sorry. You mean well!"

Johnnie Kongapod arose, lifted his brown arm silently, and, bending his earnest face on Jasper, said:

"That story is true. You will know. Time tells the truth. Wait!"

"Return in the morning to be shot!" said Aunt Olive. "Injuns don't do that way here. When I started for Injiany I was told of a mother-in-law who was so good that all her daughters' husbands asked her to come and live with them. They said she moved to Injiany. Now, I have traveled about this State to all the camp-meetin's, and I never found her anywhere. Stands to reason that no such story as that is true. You'll have to travel a long way, elder, before you find any people of that kind in these parts."

Whom was Jasper to believe—the confident Indian or the pioneers?



CHAPTER VII.

THE EXAMINATION AT CRAWFORD'S SCHOOL.

Examination-day is an important time in country schools, and it excited more interest seventy years ago than now. Andrew Crawford was always ambitious that this day should do credit to his faithful work, and his pupils caught his inspiration.

There were great preparations for the examination at Crawford's this spring. The appearance of the German school-master in the place who could read Latin was an event. Years after, when the pure gold of fame was no longer a glimmering vision or a current of fate, but a wonderful fact, Abraham Lincoln wrote of such visits as Jasper's in the settlement a curious sentence in an odd hand in an autobiography, which we reproduce here:



With such a "wizard" as Jasper in the settlement, who would certainly attend the examination, it is no wonder that this special event excited the greatest interest in all the cabins between the two Pigeon Creeks of southern Indiana.

"May we decorate the school-house?" asked a girl of Mr. Crawford, before the appointed day. "May we decorate the school-house out of the woods?"

"I am chiefly desirous that you should decorate your minds out of the spelling-book," said Mr. Crawford; "but it is a commendable thing to have an eye to beauty, and to desire to present a good appearance. Yes, you may decorate the house out of the woods."

The timber was green in places with a vine called creeping Jenney, and laurels whose leaves were almost as green and waxy as those of the Southern magnolia. The creeping Jenney could be entwined with the laurel-leaves in such a way as to form long festoons. The boys and girls spent the mornings and recesses for several days in gathering Jenney, and in twining the vines with the laurel and making decorative festoons.

They hung these festoons about the wooden walls of the low building and over the door. Out of the tufts of boxberry leaves and plums they made the word "Welcome," which they hung over the door. They covered the rude chimney with pine-boughs, and in so doing filled the room with a resinous odor. They also covered the roof with boughs of evergreen.

The spelling-book was not neglected in the preparations of the eventful week. There was to be a spelling-match on the day, and, although it was already felt that Abraham Lincoln would easily win, there was hard study on the part of all.

One afternoon, after school, in the midst of these heroic preparations, a party of the scholars were passing along the path in the timber. A dispute arose between two boys in regard to the spelling of a word.

"I spelled it just as Crawford did," said one.

"No, you didn't. Crawford spelled it with a i."

"He spelled it with a y, and that is just the way I spelled it."

"He didn't, now, I know! I heard Crawford spell it himself."

"He did!"

"Do you mean to tell me that I lie?"

"You do—it don't need telling."

"I won't be called a liar by anybody. I'll make you ache for that!"

"We'll see about that. You may ache yourself before this thing is settled. I've got fists as well as you, and I will not take such words as that from anybody. Come on!"

The two backwoods knights rushed toward each other with a wounded sense of honor in their hearts and with uplifted arms.

Suddenly a form like a giant passed between them. It took one boy under one of its arms and the other under the other, and strode down the timber.

"He called me a liar," said one of the boys. "I won't stand that from any man."

"He sassed me," said the other, "and I won't stand any sassin', not while my fists are alive."

"You wouldn't be called a liar," said the first.

"Nor take any sassin'," said the second.

The tall form in blue-jean shirt and leather breeches strode on, with the two boys under its arms.

"I beg!" at last said one of the boys.

"I beg!" said the other.

"Then I'll let you go, and we'll all be friends again!"

"Yes, Abraham, I'll give in, if he will."

"I will. Let me go."

The tall form dropped the two boys, and soon all was peace in the April-like air.

"Abraham Lincoln will never allow any quarrels in our school," said another boy. "Where he is there has to be peace. It wouldn't be fair for him to use his strength so, only he's always right; and when strength is right it is all for the best."

The boy had a rather clear perception of the true principles of human government. A will to do right and the power to enforce it, make nations great as well as character powerful.

The eventful day came, with blue-birds in the glimmering timber, and a blue sky over all. People came from a distance to attend the examination, and were surprised to find the school-house changed into a green bower.



The afternoon session had been assigned to receiving company, and the pupils awaited the guests with trembling expectation. It was a warm day, and the oiled paper that served for panes of glass in the windows had been pushed aside to admit the air and make an outlook, and the door had been left open. The first to arrive was Jasper. The school saw him coming; but he looked so kindly, benevolent, and patriarchal, that the boys and girls did not stand greatly in awe of him. They seemed to feel instinctively that he was their friend and was with them. But a different feeling came over them when 'Squire Gentry, of Gentryville, came cantering on a horse that looked like a war-charger. 'Squire Gentry was a great man in those parts, and filled a continental space in their young minds. The faces of all the scholars were turned silently and deferently to their books when the 'Squire banged with his whip-handle on the door. Aunt Olive was next seen coming down the timber. She was dressed in a manner to cause solicitude and trepidation. She wore knit mits, had a lofty poke bonnet, and a "checkered" gown gay enough for a valance, and, although it was yet very early spring, she carried a parasol over her head. There was deep interest in the books as her form also darkened the festooned door.

Then the pupils breathed freer. But only for a moment. Sarah Lincoln, Abraham's sister, looked out of the window, and beheld a sight which she was not slow to communicate.

"Abe," she whispered, "look there!"

"Blue-nose Crawford," whispered the tall boy, "as I live!"

In a few moments the school was all eyes and mouths. Blue-nose Crawford bore the reputation of being a very hard taskmaster, and of holding to the view that severe discipline was one of the virtues that wisdom ought to visit upon the youth. He once lent to Abraham Lincoln Weems's "Life of Washington." The boy read it with absorbing interest, but there came a driving storm, and the rain ran in the night through the walls of the log-cabin and wet and warped the cover of the book. Blue-nose Crawford charged young Lincoln seventy-five cents for the damage done to the book. "Abe," as he was called, worked three days, at twenty-five cents a day, pulling fodder, to pay the fine. He said, long after this hard incident, that he did his work well, and that, although his feelings were injured, he did not leave so much as a strip of fodder in the field.

"The class in reading may take their places," said Andrew Crawford.

It was a tall class, and it was provided with leather-covered English Readers. One of the best readers in the class was a Miss Roby, a girl of some fifteen years of age, whom young Lincoln greatly liked, and whom he had once helped at a spelling match, by putting his finger on his eye (i) when she had spelled defied with a y. This girl read a selection with real pathos.

"That gal reads well," said Blue-nose Crawford, or Josiah Crawford, as he should be called. "She ought to keep school. We're goin' to need teachers in Indiana. People are comin' fast."

Miss Roby colored. She had indeed won a triumph of which every pupil of Spencer County might be proud.

"Now, Nathaniel, let's hear you read. You're a strappin' feller, and you ought not to be outread by a gal."

Nathaniel raised his book so as to hide his face, like one near-sighted. He spread his legs apart, and stood like a drum-major awaiting a word of command.

"You may read Section V in poetry," said Mr. Crawford, the teacher. "Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk. Speak up loud, and mind your pauses."

He did.

"I am monarch of all I survey," he began, in a tone of vocal thunder. Then he made a pause, a very long one. Josiah Crawford turned around in great surprise; and Aunt Olive planted the chair in which she had been sitting at a different angle, so that she could scrutinize the reader.

The monarch of all he surveyed, which in the case of the boy was only one page of the English Reader, was diligently spelling out the next line, which he proceeded to pronounce like one long word with surprising velocity:

"My-right-there-is-none-to-dispute."

There was another pause.

"Hold down your book," said the master.

"Yes, hold down your book," said Josiah Crawford. "What do ye cover yer face for? There's nuthin' to be ashamed of. Now try again."

Nathaniel lowered the book and revealed the singular struggle that was going on in his mind. He had to spell out the words to himself, and in doing so his face was full of the most distressing grimaces. He unconsciously lifted his eyebrows, squinted his eyes, and drew his mouth hither and thither.

"From the cen-t-e-r, center; center, all round to the sea, I am lord of the f-o-w-l and-the-brute."

The last line came to a sudden conclusion, and was followed by a very long pause.

"Go on," said Andrew Crawford, the master.

"Yes, go on," said Josiah. "At the rate you're goin' now you won't get through by candle-light."

Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows and uttered a curiously exciting—

"O"—

"That boy'll have a fit," said Aunt Olive. "Don't let him read any more, for massy sake!"

"O—What's that word, master? S-o-l-i-t-u-d-e, so-li-tu-de. O—So-li-tu-de."

"O Solitude, where are the charms?" read Mr. Andrew Crawford,

"That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place."

Nathaniel followed the master like a race-horse. He went on smoothly until he came to "this horrible place," when his face assumed a startled expression, like one who had met with an apparition. He began to spell out horrible, "h-o-r-, hor—there's your hor, hor; r-i-b-, there's your rib, horrib—"

"Don't let that boy read any more," said Aunt Olive.

Nathaniel dropped his book by his side, and cast a far-away glance into the timber.

"I guess I ain't much of a reader," he remarked, dryly.

"Stop, sir!" said the master.

Poor Nathaniel! Once, in attempting to read a Bible story, he read, "And he smote the Hittite that he died"—"And he smote him Hi-ti-ti-ty, that he did" with great emphasis and brief self-congratulation.

In wonderful contrast to Nathaniel's efforts was the reading in concert by the whole class. Here was shown fine preparation for a forest school. The reading of verses, in which "sound corresponded to the signification," was smoothly, musically, and admirably done, and we give some of these curious exercises here:

Felling trees in a wood.

Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown, Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down.

Sounds of a bow-string.

The string let fly Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry.

The pheasant.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings.

Scylla and Charybdis.

Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms. When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves.

Boisterous and gentle sounds.

Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roaring winds' tempestuous rage restrain: Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, And ships secure without their hawsers ride.

Laborious and impetuous motion.

With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone: The huge round stone resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.

Regular and slow movement.

First march the heavy mules securely slow; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go.

Motion slow and difficult.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

A rock torn from the brow of a mountain.

Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urged amain, Whirls, leaps, and thunders down impetuous to the plain.

Extent and violence of the waves.

The waves behind impel the waves before, Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore.

Pensive numbers.

In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns.

Battle.

Arms on armor clashing brayed Horrible discord; and the madding wheels Of brazen fury raged.

Sound imitating reluctance.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned; Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

A spelling exercise followed, in which the pupils spelled for places, or for the head. Abraham Lincoln stood at the head of the class. He was regarded as the best speller in Spencer County. He is noted to have soon exhausted all that the three teachers whom he found there could teach him. Once, in after years, when he was asked how he came to know so much, he answered, "By a willingness to learn of every one who could teach me anything."

"Abraham," said Master Crawford, "you have maintained your place at the head of the class during the winter. You may take your place now at the foot of the class, and try again."

The spelling for turns, or for the head, followed the method of the old Webster's "Speller," that was once so popular in country schools:

ail, to be in trouble. ale, malt liquor. air, the atmosphere. heir, one who inherits. all, the whole. awl, an instrument. al-tar, a place for offerings. al-ter, to change. ant, a little insect. aunt, a sister to a parent. ark, a vessel. arc, part of a circle.

All went correctly and smoothly, to the delight and satisfaction of Josiah Crawford and Aunt Olive, until the word drachm was reached, when all the class failed except Abraham Lincoln, who easily passed up to the head again.

The writing-books, or copy-books, were next shown to the visitors. The writing had been done on puncheon-desks with home made ink. Abraham Lincoln's copy-book showed the same characteristic hand that signed the Emancipation Proclamation. In one corner of a certain page he had written an odd bit of verse in which one may read a common experience in the struggles of life after what is better and higher. Emerson said, "A high aim is curative." Poor backwoods Abe seemed to have the same impression, but he did not write it down in an Emersonian way, but in this odd rhyme:

"Abraham Lincoln, His hand and pen, He will be good, But God knows when."

The exercises ended with a grand dialogue translated from Fenelon between Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon, in which fidelity in friendship was commended. After this, each of the visitors, Aunt Olive included, was asked to make a "few remarks." Aunt Olive's remarks were "few," but to the point:

"Children, you have read well, and spelled well, and are good arithmetickers, but you ain't sot still. There!"

Josiah Crawford thought the progress of the school had been excellent, but that more of the rod had been needed.

(Where had all the green bushes gone in the clearing, but to purposes of discipline?)

Then good Brother Jasper was asked to speak. The "wizard" who could speak Latin arose. The pupils could see his great heart under his face. It shone through. His fine German culture did not lead him away from the solid merits of the forest school.

"There are purposes in life that we can not see," he began, "but the secret comes to those who listen to the beating of the human heart, and at the doors of heaven. Spirits whisper, as it were. The soul, a great right intention, is here; and there is a conscience here which is power; and here, for aught we can say, may be some young Servius Tullius of this wide republic."

Servius Tullius? Would any one but he have dreamed that the citizens of Rome would one day delight to honor an ungainly pupil of that forest school?

One day there came to Washington a present to the Liberator of the American Republic. It looked as follows, and bore the following inscription:



It is said that the modest President shrank from receiving such a compliment as that. It was too much. He hid away the stone in a storeroom of the capital, in the basement of the White House. It now constitutes a part of his monument, being one of the most impressive relics in the Memorial Hall of that structure. It is twenty-four hundred years old, and it traveled across the world to the prairies of Illinois, a tribute from the first advocate of the rights of the people to the latest defender of all that is sacred to the human soul.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE PARABLE PREACHES IN THE WILDERNESS.

The house in which young Abraham Lincoln attended church was simple and curious, as were the old forest Baptist preachers who conducted the services there. It was called simply the "meeting-house." It stood in the timber, whose columns and aisles opened around it like a vast cathedral, where the rocks were altars and the birds were choirs. It was built of rude logs, and had hard benches, but the plain people had done more skillful work on this forest sanctuary than on the school-house. The log meeting-house stood near the log school-house, and both revealed the heart of the people who built them. It was the Prussian school-master, trained in the moral education of Pestalozzi, that made the German army victorious over France in the late war. And it was the New England school-master that built the great West, and made Plymouth Rock the crown-stone of our own nation. The world owes to humble Pestalozzi what it never could have secured from a Napoleon. It is right ideas that march to the conquest, that lift mankind, and live.

It had been announced in the school-house that Jasper the Parable would preach in the log church on Sunday. The school-master called the wandering teacher "Jasper the Parable," but the visitor became commonly known as the "Old Tunker" in the community. The news flew for miles that "an old Tunker" was to preach. No event had awakened a greater interest since Elder Elkins, from Kentucky, had come to the settlement to preach Nancy Lincoln's funeral sermon under the great trees. On that occasion all the people gathered from the forest homes of the vast region. Every one now was eager to visit the same place in the beautiful spring weather, and to "hear what the old Tunker would have to say."

Among the preachers who used to speak in the log meeting-house and in Thomas Lincoln's cabin were one Jeremiah Cash, and John Richardson, and young Lamar. The two latter preachers lived some ten miles distant from the church; but ten miles was not regarded as a long Sabbath-day journey in those days in Indiana. When the log meeting-house was found too small to hold the people, such preachers would exhort under the trees. There used to be held religious meetings in the cabins, after the manner of the present English cottage prayer-meetings. These used to be appointed to take place at "early candle-lighting," and many of the women who attended used to bring tallow dips with them, and were looked upon as the "wise virgins" who took oil in their lamps.

It was a lovely Sunday in April. The warm sunlight filled the air and bird-songs the trees. The notes of the lark, the sparrow, and the prairie plover were bells—

"To call me to duty, while birds in the air Sang anthems of praise as I went forth to prayer,"

as one of the old hymns used to run. The buds on the trees were swelling. There was an odor of walnut and "sassafrax" in the tides of the sunny air. Cowslips and violets margined the streams, and the sky over all was serene and blue, and bright with the promise of the summer days.

The people began to gather about the meeting-house at an early hour. The women came first, in corn-field bonnets which were scoop-shaped and flaring in front, and that ran out like horns behind. On these funnel-shaped, cornucopia-like head-gears there might now and then be seen the vanity of a ribbon. The girls carried their shoes in their hands until they came in sight of the meeting-house, when they would sit down on some mossy plat under an old tree, "bein' careful of the snakes," and put them on. All wore linsey-woolsey dresses, of which four or five yards of cloth were an ample pattern for a single garment, as they had no use for any superfluous polonaises in those times.

Long before the time for the service the log meeting-house was full of women, and the yard full of men and horses. Some of the people had come from twenty miles away. Those who came from the longest distances were the first to arrive—as is usual, for in all matters in life promptness is proportioned to exertion.

When the Parable came, Thomas Lincoln met him.

"You can't preach here," said he. "Half the people couldn't hear you. You have a small voice. You don't holler and pound like the rest of 'em, I take it. Suppose you preach out under the trees, where all the people can hear ye. It looks mighty pleasant there. With our old sing-song preachers it don't make so much difference. We could hear one of them if you were to shut him up in jail. But with you it is different. You have been brought up different among those big churches over there. What do you say, preacher?"

"I would rather preach under the trees. I love the trees. They are the meeting-house of God."

"Say, preacher, would you mind goin' over and preachin' at Nancy's grave? Elder Elkins preached there, and the other travelin' ministers. Seems kind o' holy over there. Nancy was a good woman, and all the people liked her. She was Abraham's mother. The trees around her grave are beautiful."

"I would like to preach there, by that lonely grave in the wilderness."

"The Tunker will preach at Nancy's grave," said Thomas Lincoln in a loud voice. He led the way to the great cathedral of giant trees, which were clouded with swelling buds and old moss, and a long procession of people followed him there.

Among them was Aunt Olive, with a corn-field bonnet of immense proportions, and her hymn-book. She was a lively worshiper. At all the meetings she sang, and at the Methodist meetings she shouted; and after all religious occasions she "tarried behind," to discuss the sermon with the minister. She usually led the singing. Her favorite hymns were, "Am I a soldier of the Cross," "Come, thou Fount of every blessing," and "My Bible leads to glory." The last hymn and tune suited her emotional nature, and she would pitch it upon a high key, and make the woods ring with the curious musical exhortation of the chorus:

"Sing on, pray on, Ye followers of Emmanuel."

At the early candle-meetings at Thomas Lincoln's cabin and other cabins, she sang hymns of a more persuasive character. These were oddly appropriate to the hard-working, weary, yet hopeful community. One of these began thus:

"Come, my brethren, let us try, For a little season, Every burden to lay by— Come, and let us reason. What is this that casts you down? What is this that grieves you? Speak, and let the worst be known— Speaking may relieve you."

The music was weird and in a minor key. It was sung often with a peculiar motion of the body, a forward-and-backward movement, with clasped hands and closed eyes. Another of the pioneer hymns began:

"Brethren, we have met for worship, And to adore the Lord our God: Will you pray with all your power, While we wait upon the Lord? All is vain unless the Spirit Of the Holy One comes down; Brethren, pray, and heavenly manna Will be showered all around.

"Sisters, will you join and help us? Moses' sister help-ed him," etc.

The full glory of a spring day in Indiana shone over the vast forests, as the Tunker rose to speak under the great trees. It was like an Easter, and, indeed, the hymn sung at the opening of the service was much like an Easter hymn. It related how—

"On this lovely morning my Saviour was rising, The chains of mortality fully despising; His sufferings are over, he's done agonizing— This morning my Saviour will think upon me."

The individuality of the last line seemed especially comforting to many of the toiling people, and caused Aunt Olive to uplift her voice in a great shout.

"Come with me," said Jasper; "come with me this morning, and we will walk beside the Sea of Galilee together. Galilee! I love to think of Galilee—far, far away. The words spoken on the shores of Galilee, and on the mountains over-looking Galilee, are the hope of the world. They are the final words of our all-loving Father to his children. Times may change, but these words will never be exceeded or superseded; nothing can ever go beyond these teachings of the brotherhood of man, and the way that the heart may find God, and become conscious of the presence of God, and know its immortality, and the everlasting truth. What did the great Teacher say on Galilee?"

The Parable began to repeat from memory the Sermon on the Mount and the Galilean teachings. The birds came and sang in the trees during the long recitations, and the people sank down on the grass. Once or twice Aunt Olive's corn-field bonnet rose up, and out of it came a shout of "Glory!" One enthusiastic brother shouted, at one point of the quotations: "That's right, elder; pitch into 'em, and give it 'em—they need it. We're all sinners here; a good field to improve upon! Go on!"

It was past high noon when Jasper finished his quotations from the Gospels. He then paused, and said:

"Do you want to know who I am, and why I am here, and what has sent me forth among the speckled birds of the forest? I will tell you. A true life has no secrets—it needs none; it is open to all like the revelations of the skies, and the sea, and the heart of Nature—what is concealed in the heart is what should not be.

"I had a teacher. He is living now—an old, broken man—a name that will sound strange to your ears. He gave up his life to teach the orphans made by the war. He studied with them, learned with them, ate with them; he saw with their eyes and felt with their hearts. He taught after the school of Nature; as Nature teaches the child within, so he taught, using outward objects.

"He once said to me:

"'For thirty years my life has been a struggle against poverty. For thirty years I have had to forego many of the barest necessities of life, and have had to shun the society of my fellow-men for want of decent clothes. Many and many times I have gone without a dinner, and eaten in bitterness a dry crust of bread on the road, at a time when even the poorest were seated around a table. All this I have suffered, and am suffering still to-day, and with no other object than to realize my plan for helping the poor.'

"When I heard him say that, I loved him. It made me ashamed of my selfish life. Then I heard the Dunkards preach, and tell of America over the sea. I began to study the words of the Teacher of Galilee. I, too, longed to teach. My wife died, and my two children. Then I said: 'I will live for the soul. That is all that has any lasting worth. I will give up everything for the good of others, and go over the sea, and teach the children of the forest.' I am now on my way to see Black Hawk, who has promised to send out with me an interpreter and guide. I have given up my will, my property, and my name, and I am happy. Good-by, my friends. I have nothing, and am happy."

At this point Aunt Olive's corn-field bonnet rose up, and her voice rang out on the air:

"My brother, I wish you well! My brother, I wish you well! When my Lord calls, I hope I shall Be mentioned in the promised land.

"My sister, I wish you well!" etc.

"Poor sinners, I wish you well!" etc.

Galilee! There was one merry, fun-making boy in that sacred place, to whom, according to tradition, that word had a charm. He used to love to mimic the old backwoods preachers, and he became very skeptical in matters of Christian faith and doctrine, but he never forgot the teachings of the Teacher of Galilee. In the terrible duties that fell to his lot the principles of the Galilean teachings came home to his heart, and he came to know in experience what he had not accepted from the mouths of men. He is said to have said, just before his death, which bowed the nation: "When the cares of state are over, I want to go to Galilee," or words of like meaning. The legend is so beautiful that we could wish it to be true.



CHAPTER IX.

AUNT INDIANA'S PROPHECIES.

Jasper heard the local stories at the smithy and at Aunt Indiana's with intense interest. To him they furnished a study of the character of the people. They were not like stories of beautiful spiritual meaning that he had been accustomed to hear at Marienthal, at Weimar, and on the Rhine. The tales of Richter, Haupt, Hoffman, and Baron Fouque could never have been created here. These new settlements called for the incident or joke that represented a practical fact, and not the soul-growth of imagination. The one question of education was, "Can you cipher to the rule of three?" and of religion, "Have you found the Lord?" The favorite tales were of Indians, bears, and ghosts, and the rough hardships that overcome life. Jasper heard these tales with a sympathetic heart.

The true German story is a parable, a word with a soul. Jasper loved them, for the tales of a people are the heart of a people, and express the progress of culture and opinion.

One day, as Jasper was cobbling at Aunt Olive's, he sought to teach her a lesson of contentment by a German household story. Johnnie Kongapod had come in, and the woman was complaining of her hard and restricted life.

"Aunt Indiana," said Jasper, "do you have fairies here?"

"Never have seen any. We don't spin air here in America."

"We have fairies in Germany. All the children there pass through fairy-land. There once came a fairy to an old couple who were complaining, like you."

"Like me? I'm the contentedest woman in these parts. 'Tis no harm to wish for what you haven't got."

"There came a fairy to them, and said:

"'You may have three wishes. Wish.'

"The old couple thought:

"'We must be very wise,' said the woman, 'and not make any mistake, since we can only wish three times. I wish I had a pudding.'

"Immediately there came a pudding upon the table. The poor woman was greatly surprised.

"'There, you see what you have done by your foolish wishing!' said the man.

"'One of our opportunities has gone,' said the woman. 'We have but two chances left. We must be wiser.'

"They sat and looked into the fire. The fairy had disappeared from the hearth, and there were only embers and ashes there.

"The man grew angry that his wife had lost one of their opportunities.

"'Nothin' but a pudding!' said he. 'I wish that that miserable pudding were hung to your nose!'

"The pudding leaped from the table and hung at the end of the old woman's nose.

"'There!' said she, 'now you see what you have done by your foolish wishing.'

"The old man sighed. 'We have but one wish left. We must now be the wisest people in all the world.'

"They watched the dying embers, and thought. As they did so, the pudding grew heavy at the end of the old woman's nose. At last she could endure it no longer.

"'Oh!' she said, 'how I wish that pudding was off again!'

"The pudding disappeared, and the fairy was gone."

"'Tain't true," said Aunt Indiana.

"Yes," said Jasper, "what is true to life is true. Stories are the alphabet of life."

Johnnie Kongapod had listened to the tale with delight. Aunt Indiana knew that no fairy would ever appear on her hearth, but Johnnie was not so sure.

"I've seen 'em," said he.

"You—what? What have you seen? I'd like to know," said Aunt Indiana.

"Fairies—"

"Where?"

"When I've been asleep."

"There never was any fairies in my dreams," said Aunt Indiana.

No, there were not. The German Tunker and the prairie Indian might see fairies, but the hard-working Yankee pioneer had no faculties for creative fancy. Her fairy was the plow that breaks the ground, or the axe that fells the timber. Yet the German soul-tale seemed to haunt her, and she at last said:

"I wish that we had more such stories as that. It is pleasant talk. Abe Lincoln tells such things out of the Pilgrim's Progress. He's all imagination, just like you and the Indians. People who don't have much to do run to such things. I suppose that he has read that Pilgrim's Progress over a dozen times."

"I have observed that the boy had ideals," said Jasper.

"What's them?" said Aunt Indiana.

"People build life out of ideals," said Jasper. "A cathedral is an ideal before it is a form. So is a house, a glass—everything. He has the creative imagination."

"Yes—that's what I said: always going around with a book in his hand, as though he was walking on the air."

"His step-mother says that he's one of the best of boys. He does everything that he can for her, and he has never given her an unkind word. He loves his step-mother like an own mother, and he forgets himself for others. These are good signs."

"Signs—signs! Stop your cobblin', elder, and let me prophesy! That boy just takes after his father, and he will never amount to anything in this world or any other. His mother what is dead was a good woman—an awful good woman; but she was sort o' visionary. They say that she used to see things at camp-meetin's, and lose her strength, and have far-away visions. She might have seen fairies. But she was an awful good woman—good to everybody, and everybody loved her; and we were all sorry when she died, and we all love her grave yet. It is queer, but we all seem to love her grave. A sermon goes better when it is preached there under the great trees. Some folks had rather hear a sermon preached there than at the meetin'-house. Some people leave a kind o' influence; Miss Linken did. The boy means well—his heart is all right, like his poor dead mother's was—but he hasn't got any head on 'im, like as I have. He hasn't got any calculation. And now, elder, I'm goin' to say it, though I'm sorry to: he'll never amount to shucks! There, now! Josiah Crawford says so, too."

"There is one very strong point about Abraham," said Jasper. "He has a keen sense of what is right, and he is always governed by it. He has faith that right is might. Didn't you ever notice it?"

"Yes, I'll do him justice. I never knew him to do a thing that he thought wrong—never. He couldn't. He takes after his mother's folks, and they say that there is Quaker blood in the Linkens."

"But, my good woman, a fool would be wise if he always did right, wouldn't he? There is no higher wisdom than to always do right. And a boy that has a heart to feel for every one, and a conscience that is true to a sense of right, and that loves learning more than anything else, and studies continually, is likely to find a place in the world.

"Now, I am going to prophesy. This country is going to need men to lead them, and Abraham Lincoln will one day become a leader among men. He leads now. His heart leads; his mind leads. I can see it. The world here is going to need men of knowledge, and it will select the man of the most learning who has the most heart, the most sympathy with the people. It will select him. I have a spiritual eye, and I can see."

"A leader of the people—Abe Lincoln! You have said it now. I would as soon think of Johnnie Kongapod! A leader of the people! Are you daft? When the prairies leap into corn-fields and the settlements into banks of gold, and men can travel a mile a minute, and clodhoppers become merchants and Congressers, and as rich as Spanish grandees, then Abraham Lincoln may become a leader of the people, but not till then! No, elder, you are no Samuel, that has come down here among the sons of Jesse to find a shepherd-boy for a king. You ain't no Samuel, and he ain't no shepherd-boy. He all runs to books and legs, and I tell you he ain't got no calculation. Now, I've prophesied and you've prophesied."

"Time tells the truth about all things," said Jasper. "We shall meet, if I make my circuits, and we will talk of our prophecies in other years, should Providence permit. My soul has set its mark on that boy: wait, and we will see if the voice within me speaks true. It has always spoken true until now."

At the close of this prophetic dialogue the subject of it appeared at the door. He was a tall boy, with a dark face, homely, ungainly, awkward. He wore a raccoon-skin cap, a linsey-woolsey shirt, and leather breeches, and was barefooted, although the weather was yet cool. He did not look like one who would ever cause the thrones of the world to lean and listen, or who would find in the Emperor of all the Russias the heart of a brother.

"Abe," said Aunt Indiana, "the Tunker here has been speakin' well of you, though you don't deserve it. He just says as how you are goin' to be somebody, and make somethin' in the world. I hope you will, though you're a shaky tree to hang hopes on. I ain't got nothin' ag'in ye. He says that you'll become a leader among men. What do you think o' that, Abe? Don't stand there gawkin'. Come in and sit down."

"It helps one to have some one believe in him," said the tall boy. "One tries to fulfill the good prophecies made about him. I wish I was good.—Thank ye, elder, for your good opinion. I wonder if I will ever make anything? I sometimes think I will. I look over toward mother's grave there, and think I will; but you can't tell. Crawford the schoolmaster he thinks good of me, but the other Crawford—Josiah—he's ag'in me. But if we do right, we'll all come out right."

"Yes, my boy," said Jasper, "have faith that right is might. This is what the Voice and the Being within tells me to preach and to teach. Let us have faith that right is might, and do our duty, and the Spirit of God will give us a new nature, and make us new creatures, and the rebirth of the spiritual life into the eternal kingdom."

The prairie winds breathed through the trees. A robin came and sang in the timber.

The four sat thoughtful—the Tunker, the Indian, the pioneer woman, and the merry, sad-faced boy. It was a commonplace scene in the Indiana timber, and that one lonely grave is all that is left to recall such scenes to-day—the grave of the pioneer mother.



CHAPTER X.

THE INDIAN RUNNER.

The young May moon was hanging over the Mississippi on the evening when Jasper came to the village of the Sacs and Foxes. This royal town, the head residence of the two tribes, and the ancient burying-ground of the Indian race, was very beautifully situated at the junction of the Rock River with the Mississippi. The Father of Waters, which is in many places turbid and uninteresting, here becomes a clear and impetuous stream, flowing over beds of rock and gravel, amid high and wooded shores. The rapids—the water-ponies of the Indians—here come leaping down, surging and foaming, and are checked by monumental islands. The land rises from the river in slopes, like terraces, crowned with hills and patriarchal trees. From these hills the sight is glorious. On one hand rolls the mighty river, and on the other stretch vast prairies, flower-carpeted, sun-flooded, a sea of vegetation, the home of the prairie plover and countless nesters of the bright, warm air. It is a park, whose extent is bounded by hundreds of miles.

Water-swept and beautiful lies Rock Island, where on a parapet of rock was built Fort Armstrong in the days of the later Indian troubles.

The royal town and burying-ground was a place of remarkable fertility. The grape-vine tangled the near woods, the wild honeysuckle perfumed the air, and wild plums blossomed white in May and purpled with fruit in summer. If ever an Indian race loved a town, it was this. The Indian mind is poetic. Nature is the book of poetry to his instinct, and here Nature was poetic in all her moods.

The Indians venerated the graves of their ancestors. Here they kept the graves beautiful, and often carried food to them and left it for the dead.

The chant at these graves was tender, and shows that the human heart everywhere is the same. It was like this:

"Where are you, my father? Oh, where are you now? I'm longing to see thee; I'm wailing for thee. (Wail.)

"Are you happy, my father? Are you happy now? I'm longing to see thee; I'm wailing for thee. (Wail.)

"Spring comes to the river, But where, then, art thou? I'm longing to see thee; I'm wailing for thee. (Wail.)

"The flowers come forever; I'll meet thee again; I'm longing to see thee— Time bears me to thee!" (Wail.)

As Jasper ascended the high bluffs of the lodge where Black Hawk dwelt, he was followed by a number of Indians who came out of their houses of poles and bark, and greeted him in a kindly way. The dark chief met him at the door of the lodge.

"You are welcome, my father. The new moon has bent her bow over the waters, and you have come back. You have kept your promise. I have kept mine. There is the boy."

An Indian boy of lithe and graceful form came out of the lodge, followed by an old man, who was his uncle. The boy's name was Waubeno, and his uncle's was Main-Pogue. The latter had been an Indian runner in Canada, and an interpreter to the English there. He spoke English well. The boy Waubeno had been his companion in his long journeys, and, now that the interpreter was growing old, remained true to him. The three stood there, looking down on the long mirror of the Mississippi—Black Hawk, Main-Pogue, and Waubeno—and waiting for Jasper to speak.

"I have come to bring you peace," said Jasper—"not the silence of the hawk or the bow-string, but peace here."

He laid his hand on his breast, and all the Indians did the same.

"I am a man of peace," continued Jasper. "If any one should seek to slay me, I would not do him any harm. I would forgive him, and pray that his blindness might go from his soul, and that he might see a better life. You welcome me, you are true to me, and, whatever may happen, I will be true to your race."

The black chief bowed, Main-Pogue, and the boy Waubeno.

"I believe you," said Black Hawk. "Your face says 'yes' to your words. The Indian's heart is always true to a friend. Sit down; eat, smoke the peace-pipe, and let us talk. Sit down. The sky is clear, and the night-bird cries for joy on her wing. Let us all sit down and talk. The river rolls on forever by the graves of the braves of old. Let us sit down."

The squaws brought Jasper some cakes and fish, and Black Hawk lighted some long pipes and gave them to Main-Pogue and Waubeno.

"I have brought the boy here for you," said Black Hawk. "He comes of the blood of the brave. Let me tell you his story. It will shame the pale-face, but let me tell you the story. You will say that the Indian can be great, like the pale-face, when I tell you his story. It will smite your heart. Listen."

A silence followed, during which a few puffs of smoke curled into the air from the black chief's pipe. He broke his narrative by such silences, designed to be impressive, and to offer an opportunity for thought on what had been said.

Strange as it may seem to the reader, the story that follows is substantially true, and yet nothing in classic history or modern heroism can surpass in moral grandeur the tale that Black Hawk was always proud to tell:

"Father, that is the boy. He knows all the ways from the Great Lakes to the long river, from the great hills to Kaskaskia. You can trust him; he knows the ways. Main-Pogue knows all the ways. Main-Pogue was a runner for the pale-face. He has taught him the ways. Their hearts are like one heart, Main-Pogue's and Waubeno's.



"His father is dead, Waubeno's. Main-Pogue has been a father to him. They would die for each other. Main-Pogue says that Waubeno may run with you, if I say that he may run. I say so. Main-Pogue and Waubeno are true to me.

"The boy's father is dead, I said. Who was the father of that boy?—Waubeno, stand up."

The boy arose, like a tall shadow. There was a silence, and Black Hawk puffed his pipe, then laid it beside his blanket.

"Who was the father of Waubeno? He was a brave, a warrior. He wore the gray plume, and honor to him was more than life. He would not lie, and they put him to death. He was true as the stars, and they killed him."

There followed another silence.

"Father, you teach. You teach the head; you teach the heart: to live a true life, is the thing to teach—the thing you call conscience, soul, those are the right things to teach. What are books to the head, if the soul is not taught to be true?

"Father, the father of Waubeno could teach the pale-face. In the head? No, in the heart? No, in the soul, which is the true book of the Great Spirit that you call God. You came to us to teach us God. It is good. You are a brother, but God came to us before. He has written the law of right in the soul of every man. The right will find the light. You teach the way—you bring the Word of him who died for mankind. It is good. I've got you a runner to run with you. It is good. You help the right to find the light.

"Father, listen. I am about to speak. Before the great war with the British brother (1812) that boy's father struck down to the earth a pale-face who had done him wrong. The white man died. He who wrongs another does not deserve the sun. He died, and his soul went to the shadows. The British took the red warrior prisoner for killing this man who had wronged him. Waubeno was a little one then, when they took his father prisoner.

"The British told the old warrior that they had condemned him to die.

"'I am not afraid to die,' said the warrior. 'Let me go to the Ouisconsin (Wisconsin) and see my family once more, and whisper my last wish in the ear of my boy, and I will return to you and die. I will return at the sunrise.'

"'You would never return,' said the commander of the stockade.

"The warrior strode before him.

"'Can a true man lie?'

"The commander looked into his face, and saw his soul.

"'Well, go,' said he. 'I would like to see an Indian who would come back to die.'

"The warrior went home, under the stars. He told his squaw all. He had six little children, and he hugged them all. Waubeno was the oldest boy. He told him all, and pressed him to his heart. He whispered in his ear.—What was it he said, Waubeno?"

The shadowy form of the boy swayed in the dim light, as he answered. He said:

"'Avenge my death! Honor my memory. The Great Spirit will teach you how.' That is what my father said to me, and I felt the beating of his heart."

There was a deep silence. Then Black Hawk said:

"The warrior looked down on the Ouisconsin under the stars. He looked up to heaven, and cried, 'Lead thou my boy!' Then he set his face toward the stockades of Prairie du Chien.

"He strode across the prairie as the sun was rising; he arrived in time, and—Father, listen!"

There was another silence, so deep that one might almost hear the puffing smoke as it rose on the air.

"They shot him! That is his boy, Waubeno."

Jasper stood silent; he thought of Johnnie Kongapod's story, and the night-scene at Pigeon Creek.

"I shall teach him a better way," said Jasper, at last. "I will lead him to honor the memory of his great father in a way that he does not now know. The Great Spirit will guide us both. His father was a great man. I will lead him to become a greater."

"Father," said the boy, coming forward, "I will always be true to you, but I have sworn by the stars."

Jasper stood like one in a dream. Could such a tale as this be true among savages? Honor like this only needed the gospel teaching to do great deeds. Jasper saw his opportunity, and his love of mankind never glowed before as it did then. He folded his hands, closed his eyes, and his silent thoughts winged upward to the skies.



CHAPTER XI.

THE CABIN NEAR CHICAGO.

Jasper and Waubeno crossed the prairies to Lake Michigan. It was June, the high tide of the year. The long days poured their sunlight over the seas of flowers. The prairie winds were cool, and the new vegetation was alive with insects and birds.

The first influence that Jasper tried to exert on Waubeno was to induce him to forego the fixed resolution to avenge his father's death.

"The first thing in education," he used to say, "is conscience, the second is the heart, and the third is the head."

He had planned to teach Waubeno while the Indian boy should be teaching him, and he wished to follow his own theory that a new pupil should first learn to be governed by his moral sense.

"Waubeno," he said, in their long walk over the prairie, "I wish to teach you and make you wise, but before I can do you justice you must make a promise. Will you, Waubeno?"

"I will. You would not ask me to do what is wrong."

"It may be a hard thing, but, Waubeno, I wish you to promise me that you will never seek to avenge your father. Will you, Waubeno?"

"Parable, I will promise you any right thing but that. I have made another promise about that thing—it must hold."

"Waubeno, I can not teach you as I would while you carry malice in your heart. The soul does not see clearly that is dark with evil. Do you see? I wish it for your good."

"The white man punishes his enemies, does he not? Why should not I avenge a wrong? The white fathers at Malden" (the trade-post on Lake Erie) "avenge every wrong that is done them by the Indians, do they not?"

"Christ died for his enemies. He forgave them, dying. You have heard."

"Then why do his followers not do the same?"

"They do."

"I have never seen one who did."

"Not one?"

"No, not one."

"Then they are false to the cross. Waubeno, I love you. I am seeking your good. Trust me. I would make you any promise that I could. Make me this promise, and then we will be brothers. Your vow rises between us like a cloud."

"Parable, listen. I will promise, on one condition."

"What, Waubeno?"

"You say that right is might, Parable?"

"Yes."

"When I find a single white man who defends an Indian to his own hurt because it is right, I will promise. I have known many white men who defended the Indian because they thought that it was good for them to do it—good for their pockets, good for their church, good for their souls in another world—but never one to his own harm, because it was right; listen, Parable—never one to his own harm because it was right. When I meet one—such a one—I will promise you what you ask. Parable, my folks did right because it was right."

"Waubeno, I once knew a boy who defended a turtle to his own harm, because it was right. The boys laughed at him, but his soul was true to the turtle."

"I would like to meet that boy," Waubeno said. "He and I would be brothers. But I have never seen such a boy, Parable. I have never seen any man who had the worth of my own father, and, till I do, I shall hold to my vow to him! God heard that vow, and he shall see that I prove true to a man who died for the truth!"

The two came in sight of blue Lake Michigan, where the old Jesuit explorer had had a vision of a great city; and where Point au Sable, the San Domingo negro, for a time settled, hoping to be made an Indian king. Here he found the hospitable roofs of John Kinzie, the pioneer of Chicago, the Romulus of the great mid-continent city, where storehouses abounded with peltries and furs.

John Kinzie (the father of the famous John H. Kinzie) was a grand pioneer, like the Pilgrim Fathers of the elder day. He dealt honestly with the Indians, and won the hearts of the several tribes. He settled in Chicago in 1804, at which time a block-house was built by the Government as a frontier house or garrison. This frontier house stood near the present Rush Street Bridge. Mr. Kinzie's house stood on the north side of the Chicago River, opposite the fort. The storm-beaten block-house was to be seen in Chicago as late as 1857, and the place of Mr. Kinzie's home will ever be held as sacred ground. The frontier house was known as Fort Dearborn. A little settlement grew around the fort and the hospitable doors of Mr. Kinzie, until in 1830 it numbered twelve houses. Twelve houses in Chicago in 1830! Pass the bridge of sixty years, and lo! the rival city of the Western world, with its more than a million people—more than fulfilling the old missionary's dream!