Referring to this episode of the journey a long time afterward, Lincoln said to a friend:

"I could not endure the idea of abandoning even a dog. Pulling off shoes and socks, I waded across the stream, and triumphantly returned with the shivering animal under my arms. His frantic leaps of joy, and other evidences of gratitude, repaid me for all the exposure I had undergone."



CHAPTER XVIII.

MAIN-POGUE.

Jasper taught for a time near New Salem, then made again his usual circuit, after which he made his home for a time at Springfield, Illinois. When Jasper was returning from this last circuit of his self-appointed mission the Black Hawk war had begun again. He came one day, after long wanderings, to Bushville, in Schuyler County, Illinois, and found the place in a state of great excitement. The town was filling with armed men, and among them were many faces that he had seen at New Salem, when Waubeno was his companion.

He recognized a Mr. Green, whom he had known in New Salem, and said to him:

"My friend, what does this armed gathering mean?"

"Black Hawk has crossed the Mississippi and is making war on the settlers. The Governor has called for volunteers to defend the State."

"What has led to this new outbreak?" said Jasper, although few knew the cause better than he.

"Oh, sentiment—Indian sentiment. Black Hawk wants the old Indian town on the bluff again. He says it is sacred to his race; that his ancestors are buried there, and that there is no place like it on earth, or none that can take its place in his soul. He claims that the chiefs had been made drunk by the white men when they signed the treaty that gave up the town; that he never sold his fathers' graves. His heart is full of revenge, and he and all his tribe cling to that old Sac village with the grasp of death."

"The trouble has been gathering long?"

"Yes. The settlers came up, under the treaty, to occupy the best lands around the Sac town and compel the Indians to live west of the Mississippi. Then the Indians and settlers began to dispute and quarrel. The settlers brought whisky, and Black Hawk demanded that it should not be sold to his people. He violently entered a settler's claim, and stove in a barrel of whisky before the man's eyes. Then the Indians went over the Mississippi sullenly, and left their cabins and corn-fields. But hard weather came, and the women would come back to the old corn-fields, which they had planted the year before, to steal corn. They said that the corn was theirs, and that they were starving for their own food. Some of them were killed by the settlers. Black Hawk had become enraged again. He has been trying to get the Indian tribes to unite and kill all of the whites. He has violated the old Indian treaty, and is murdering people on every hand, and the Governor has asked for volunteers to protect the lives and property of the settlers. He had to do it. Either the whites or the Indians must perish. The settlers came here under a legal treaty; they must be protected. It is no time for sentiment now."

"Are nearly all of the men of New Salem here?" said Jasper.

"Yes; Abraham Lincoln was the first to enlist, and he is our leader. He ought to be a good Indian fighter. His grandfather was killed by the Indians."

"So I have heard."

"But Lincoln himself is not a hard man; there's nothing revengeful about him. He would be more likely to do a good act to an Indian than a harmful one, if he could. His purpose is not to kill Indians, but to protect the State and save the lives of peaceful, inoffensive people."

The men from the several towns in the vicinity gathered in the open space, and proceeded to elect their officers.

The manner of the election was curious. There were the two candidates for captain of the company. They were Abraham Lincoln and a man by the name of Fitzpatrick. Each volunteer was asked to put himself in the line by the side of the man of his choice.

One by one they stepped forward and arranged themselves by the side of Lincoln, until Lincoln stood at the head of a larger part of the men.

"Captain Lincoln!" said one, when he saw how the election was going. "Three cheers for Honest Abe! He is our man."

There arose a great shout of "Captain Lincoln!"

Jasper marked the delight which the election had given his old New Salem friends. Lincoln himself once said that that election was the proudest event of his life.

The New Salem Company went into camp at Beardstown, and was disbanded at Ottawa thirty days after, not having met the enemy. Lincoln, feeling that he should be true to his country and the public safety at the hour of peril, enlisted again as a common private, served another thirty days, and then, the war not being over, he enlisted again. The war terminated with the battle of Bad Axe and the capture of Black Hawk, who became a prisoner of state.

One day, when the volunteers were greatly excited by the tales of Indian murders, and were beset by foes lurking in ambush and pirogue, a remarkable scene occurred in Lincoln's camp.

The men, who had been talking over a recent massacre by the Indians, were thirsting to avenge the barbarities, when suddenly the withered form of an Indian appeared before them.

They started, and an officer demanded:

"Who are you?"

"Main-Pogue."

"How came you here?"

"I am a friend to the white man. I'm going to meet my son, a boy whom I have made my own."

"You are a spy!"

"I am not a spy. I am Main-Pogue. I am hungry; I am old. I am no spy. Give an old Indian food, and I will serve you while you need. Then let me go and find my boy."

"Food!" said one. "You are a spy, a plotter. There is murder in your heart. We will make short work with you. That is what we are sent out to do."

"I never did the white man harm," said the old man, drawing his blanket around him.

"You shall pay for this, you old hypocrite!" said another officer. "Men, what shall we do with this spy?"

"Kill him!" said one.

"Shoot him!" said another.

"Torture him, and make him confess!" said a third.

The old Indian stood bent and trembling.

"I am a wandering beggar, looking for my boy," said the Indian. "I never did the white man harm. Hear me."

"You belong to Black Hawk's devils," said an officer, "and you are plotting our death. You shall be shot. Seize him!"

The old Indian trembled as the men surrounded him bent on his destruction.

There came toward the excited company a tall young officer. All eyes were bent upon him. He peered into the face of the old Indian. The men rushed forward to obey the officer.

"Halt!" said the tall captain. "This Indian must not be killed by us."

That speaker was Abraham Lincoln. The men jeered at him, but he stood between the Indian and them, like a form of iron.

The Indian gave his protector a grateful look, and there dropped from his hand a passport, which in his confusion he had failed to give the officer. It was a certificate saying that he had rendered good service to the Government, and it was signed by General Cass.

"Why should you wish to save him?" asked a volunteer of young Lincoln. "Your grandfather was killed by an Indian. You are a coward!"

"I would do what is right by any man," said Lincoln, fiercely. "Who says I am a coward? I will meet him here in an open contest. Now, let the man who says I am a coward meet me face to face and hand to hand."

He stood over the cowering Indian, dark, self-confident and defiant.

"I stand for justice. Let him come on. I stand alone for right. Let him come on.—Main-Pogue, go!"

Out of the camp hobbled the Indian, with the long, strong arm of Abraham Lincoln lifted over him. The eyes of the men followed him in anger, disappointment, and scorn. Hard words passed from one to the other. He felt for the first time in his life that he stood in this matter utterly alone.

"Jeer on," he said. "I would shield this Indian at the cost of my life. I would not be a true soldier if I failed in my duty to this old man. In every event of life it is right that makes might; and the rights of an Indian are as sacred as those of any other man, and I would defend them, at whatever cost, as those of a white man.—Main-Pogue, go hence! Here will I stand between you and death."

"Heaven bless you for protecting a poor old man! I have been a runner for the whites for many years, but I have never met a man like you. I will tell my boy of this. Your name is Lincoln?"

"Yes—Abraham Lincoln, though the name matters nothing."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE FOREST COLLEGE.

"Well, how time flies, and the clock of the year does go round! Here's the elder again! It's a bright day that brings ye here, though I shouldn't let ye sleep in the prophet's chamber, if I had one, 'cause ye ain't any prophet at all. But ye are right welcome just the same. Where is yer Indian boy?"

"He's gone to his own people, Aunt Olive."

"To whet his tommyhawk, I make no doubt. Oh, elder, how ye have been deceived in people! Ye believe that every one is as good as one can be, or can be grafted to bear sweet fruit, but, hoe-down-hoe, elder, 'taint so. Yer Aunt Indiana knows how desperately wicked is the human heart. If ye don't do others, others will do ye, and this world is a warfare. Come in; I've got somethin' new to tell ye. It's about the Linkens' Abe."

The Tunker entered the cheerful cabin in the sunny clearing of the timber.

"I've been savin' up the news to tell ye when ye came. Abe's been to war!"

"He has not been hurt, has he?"

"Hurt! No, he hasn't been hurt. A great Indian fighter he proved! The men were all laughin' about it. He'll live to fight another day, as the sayin' goes, and so will the enemy. Well, I always thought that there was no need of killin' people. Let them alone, and they will all die themselves; and as for the enemy, let them alone, and they will come home waggin' their tails behind them, as the ditty says. Well, I must tell ye. Abe's been to war. He didn't see the enemy, nor fight, nor nothin'. But a wild Indian came right into his camp, and the soldiers started up to kill him, and what do ye suppose Abe did?"

"I think he did what he thought to be right."

"He let him go! There! what do you think of that? He just went to fightin' his own company to save the Indian. There's a warrior for ye! And that wasn't all. He talked in such a way that he frightened his own men, and he just gave the Indian some bread and cheese, and let him off. And the Indian went off blessin' him. Abe will never make a soldier or handle armies much, after all yer prophecies. Such a soldier as that ought to be rewarded a pinfeather."

"His conduct was after the Galilean teaching—was it not?—and produced the result of making the Indian a friend. Was not that a good thing to do? Who was the Indian?"

"It was old Main-Pogue. He was uncle, or somethin', to that boy who used to travel about with you, teachin' you the language—Waubeno; the old interpreter for General Cass's men. He'll go off and tell Waubeno. I wonder if Main-Pogue knew who it was that saved him, and if he will tell Waubeno that?"

"Lincoln did a noble act."

"Oh, elder, ye've got a good heart, but ye're weak in yer upper story. That ain't all I've got to tell ye. Abe has failed, after all yer prophecies, too. He and another man went to keepin' store up in New Salem, and he let his partner cheat him, and they failed; and now he's just workin' to pay up his debts, and his partner's too."

"And his partner's too? That shows that he saved an honest purpose out of losses. The greatest of all losses is a loss of integrity of purpose. I'm glad to hear that he has not lost that."

"Oh, elder, ye've allus somethin' good to say of that boy. But I'm not agin him. He's Tom Linken's son, just as I told ye; and he'll never come to anythin' good. He all runs to books and gabble, and goes 'round repeatin' poetry, which is only the lies of crazy folks. I haven't any use for poetry, except hymns. But he's had real trouble of late, besides these things, and I'm sorry for that. He's lost the girl what he was goin' to marry. She was a beautiful girl, and her death made him so downhearted that they had to shut him up and watch him to keep him from committin' suicide. They say that he has very melancholy spells. He can't help that, I don't suppose. His mother what sleeps over yonder under the timber was melancholy. How are all the schools that you set to goin' on the Wabash?"

"They are all growing, good woman, and it fills my heart with delight to see them grow. They are all growing like gardens for the good of this great country. It does my heart good, and makes my soul happy, to start these Christian schools. It's my mission. And I try to start them right—character first, true views of things next, and books last; but the teaching of young children to think and act right spiritually is the highest education of all. This is best done by telling stories, and so I travel and travel telling stories to schools. You do not see my plan, but it is the true seed that I am planting, and it will bear fruit when I am gone to a better world than this."

"Oh, ye mean well," said Aunt Olive, "but ye don't know more than some whole families—pardon my plainness of speech. I don't doubt that ye are doin' some good, after a fashion; but don't prophesy—yer prophecies in regard to Abe have failed already. He'll never command the American army, nor run the nation, nor keep store. Yer Aunt Indiana can read character, and her prophecies have proved true so far."

"Wait—time tells the whole truth; and worth is worth, and passes for the true gold of life in time."

"Ye don't think that there's any chance for him yet, do ye, elder, after lettin' the Indian go, and failin', and havin' that melancholy spell?"

"Yes, I do. My spiritual sense tells me so."

"Yer spiritual sense! Elder, ye ought to go to school. Ye are nothin' but a child yerself. And let me advise ye never to have anythin' more to do with that there Indian boy. Fishes don't swim on rocks, nor hawks go to live in a cage. An Indian is an Indian, and, mark my words, that boy will have yer scalp some day. He will, now—he will. I saw it in his eye."

The Tunker journeyed toward the new town of Springfield, Illinois, along the fragrant timber and over the blooming prairies. Everywhere were to be seen the white prairie schooner and the little village of people that followed it.

Springfield was but a promising village at this time, in a very fertile land. Probably no one ever thought that it would become a capital city of an empire of population, the hub of that great wheel of destiny rimmed by the Wabash, the Mississippi, Rock River, and the Lake; and still less did any one ever dream that it would be the legislative influence of that tall, laughing, sad-faced boy, Lincoln, who would produce this result.

Jasper preached at Springfield, and visited the log school-house, and told stories to the little school. He then started to walk to New Salem, a distance of some eighteen or twenty miles.

It was a pleasant country, and all things seemed teeming with life, for it was now the high tide of the year. The prairies were billows of flowers, and the timber was shady and cool, carpeted with mosses, tangled with vines, with its tops bright with sunshine and happy with the songs of birds.

About half-way between the two towns Jasper saw some lofty trees, giants of the forest, that spread out their branches like roofs of some ancient temple. There were birds' nests made of sticks in their tops, and a cool stream ran under them. He sought the place for rest.

As he entered the great shadow, he saw a tall young man seated on a log, absorbed in reading a book. He approached him, and recognized him as young Lincoln.

"I am glad to meet you here, in this beautiful place," he said.

"This is my college," said Lincoln.

"What are you studying, my friend?"

"Oh, I am trying my hand at law a little. Stuart, the Springfield lawyer, lends me his law-books, and I walk over there from New Salem to get them, and when I get as far back as this I sit down on this log and study. I can study when I am walking. I once mastered forty pages of Blackstone in a walk. But I love to stop and study on this log. It is rather a long walk from New Salem to Springfield—almost twenty miles—and when I get as far back as this I feel tired. These trees are so grand that they look like a house of Nature, and I call them my college. I can't have the privileges of better-off young men, who can go to Philadelphia, New York, or Boston to study law, and so I do the best I can here. I get discouraged sometimes, but I believe that right is might, and do my best, and there is something that is leading me on."

"I am glad to find you here, Abraham Lincoln. I love you in my heart, and I wish that I might help you in your studies. But I have never studied law."

"But you do help me."

"How?"

"By your faith in me. Elder, I have been having a hard row to hoe, and am an unlucky fellow. Have been keeping a grocery, and we have failed—failed right at the beginning of life. It hurt my pride, but, elder, it has not hurt my honor. I've worked and paid up all my debts, and now I am going to pay his. I might make excuses for not paying his part of the debts, but, elder, it would not leave my name clear. I must live conscience free. People call me a fool, but they trust me. They have made me postmaster at New Salem, though that ain't much of an office. The mail comes only once a week, and I carry it in my hat. They'll need a new post-office by and by."

"My friend, you are giving yourself a moral self-education that has more worth than all the advantages of wealth or a famous name or the schools of Boston. The time will come when this growing people will need such a man as you to lead them, and you will lead them more grandly than others who have had an easier school. You have learned the first principles of true education—it is, the habit that can not do wrong without feeling the flames of torment within. Every sacrifice that you have made to your conscience has given you power. That power is a godlike thing. You will see all one day, as I do now."

"Elder, they call me a merry-maker, but I carry with me a sad heart. I wish to tell you, for I feel that you are my true friend. I loved Ann Rutledge. She was the daughter of James Rutledge, the founder of our village and the owner of the mill on the Sangamon. She was a girl of a loving heart, gentle blood, and her face was lovely. You saw her at the tavern. I loved her—I loved her very name; and she is dead. It has all happened since you were here, and I have wished to meet you again and tell you all. Such things as these make me melancholy. A great darkness comes down upon me at times, and I am tempted to end all the bright dream that we call life. But I rise above the temptation. Elder, you don't know how my heart has had to struggle. I sometimes think of my poor mother's grave in the timber in Indiana, and I always think of her grave—Ann Rutledge's—and then it comes over me like a cloud, that there is no place for me in the world. Do you want to know what I do in those hours, elder? I repeat a long poem. I have said it over a hundred times. It was written by some poet who felt as I do. I would like to repeat it to you, elder. I tell stories—they only make me more melancholy—but this poem soothes my mind. It makes me feel that other men have suffered before, and it makes me willing to suffer for others, and to accept my lot in life, whatever it may be."

"I wish to hear the poem that has so moved you," said the Tunker.

Abraham Lincoln stood up and leaned against the trunk of one of the giant trees. The sunlight was sifting through the great canopy of leaves, boughs, and nests overhead, and afar gleamed the prairies like gardens of the sun. He lifted his long arm, and, with a sad face, said:

"Elder, listen.

"'Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

"'The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

"'The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blest— Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

"'[The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased.]

"'The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

"'The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

"'[The saint who enjoyed the communion of Heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.]

"'So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told.

"'For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, we view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run.

"'The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

"'They loved, but the story we can not unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumber will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

"'They died, ay, they died: we things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

"'Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

"''Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud— Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?'"

He stood there in moody silence when he had finished the recitation, which was (unknown to him) from the pen of a pastoral Scotch poet. The Tunker looked at him, and saw how deep were his feelings, and how earnest were his desires to know the true way of life and to do well his mission, and go on with the great multitude, whose procession comes upon the earth and vanishes from the scenes. But he did not dream of the greatness of the destiny for which that student was preparing in the hard college of the woods.

"My education must always be defective," said the young student. "I can not read law in great law-offices, like other young men, but I can be just—I can do right; and I would never undertake a case of law, for any money, that I did not think right and just. I would stand for what I thought was right, as I did by the old Indian, and I think that the people in time would learn to trust me."

"Abraham Lincoln, to school one's conscience to the habit of right, so that it can not do wrong, is the first and the highest education. It is what one is that makes him a knight, and that is the only true knighthood. The highest education is that of the soul. Did you know that the Indian whom you saved was Main-Pogue?"

"Yes."

"And that Main-Pogue is the uncle and foster-father of my old guide, Waubeno?"

"No. Waubeno was the boy who came with you to the Wabash?"

"Waubeno's father was killed by the white people. He was condemned to death. He asked to go home to see his family once more, and returned upon his honor to die. That old story is true. Does it seem possible that an English soldier could ever take the life of an Indian like that?"

"No, it does not. Will Main-Pogue tell Waubeno that it was I who saved him?"

"Does Main-Pogue know you by name? I hope he does."

"He may have forgotten. I would like for him to remember it, because the Indian boy liked me, and an Indian killed my grandfather. I liked that Indian boy, and I would do justice, if I could, by all men, and any man."

"Lincoln, I came to love and respect that Indian boy. There was a native nobility in him. But my efforts to make him a Christian failed, for he carried revenge in his heart. I wish that he could know that it was you who did that deed; your character might be an influence that would strike an unknown cord in the boy's heart, for Waubeno has a noble heart—Waubeno is noble. I wish he knew who it was that spared Main-Pogue. Acts teach where words fail, and the true teacher is not lips, but life. The boy once said to me that he would cease to seek to avenge his father's death if he could find a single white man who would defend an Indian to his own harm, because it was right. Now, Lincoln, you have done just the act that would change his heart. But he has gone with the winds. How will he ever hear of it? How will he ever know it?

"When Main-Pogue meets him, if he ever does again, he may tell him all. But does Main-Pogue understand the relations that exist between you and me, and us and that boy? O Waubeno, Waubeno, I would that you might hear of this!"

He thought, and added: "He will hear of it, somehow, in some way. Providence makes golden keys of deeds like yours. They unlock the doors of mystery. Let me see, what was it Waubeno said—his exact words? 'When I find a single white man who defends an Indian to his own hurt, because it is right, I will promise.' Lincoln, he said that. You are that man. Lincoln, may God bless you, and call you into his service when he has need of a man!"



CHAPTER XX.

MAKING LINCOLN A "SON OF MALTA."

When Jasper, some years later, again met Aunt Eastman, she had a yet more curious story to tell about Abraham.

It was spring, and the cherry-trees were in bloom and musical with bees. In the yard a single apple-tree was red with blooms, which made fragrant the air.

"And here comes Johnnie Apple-seed!" said Aunt Olive. "Heaven bless ye! I call ye Johnnie Apple-seed because ye remind me so much of that good man. He was a good man, if he had lost his wits; and ye mean well, just as he did. Smell the apple-blossoms! I don't know but it was him that planted that there tree."

To explain Aunt Olive's remarks, we should say that there once wandered along the banks of the Ohio, a poor wayfaring man who had a singular impression of duty. He felt it to be his calling in life to plant apple-seeds. He would go to a farmer's house, ask for work, and remain at the place a few days or weeks. After he had gone, apple-seeds would be found sprouting about the farm. His journeys were the beginnings of many orchards in the Middle, West, and prairie States.

"I love to smell apple-blossoms," said Aunt Olive. "It reminds me of old New England. I can almost hear the bells ring on the old New England hills when I smell apple-blooms. They say that Johnnie Apple-seed is dead, and that they filled his grave with apple-blooms. I don't know as it is so, but it ought to be. I sometimes wish that I was a poet, because a poet fixes things as they ought to be—makes the world all over right. But, la! Abe Linken was a poet. Have ye heard the news?"

"No. What?—nothing bad, I hope?"

"He's hung out his shingle."

"Where?"

"In Springfield."

"In Springfield?"

"Yes, elder, I've seen it. I have traveled a good deal since I saw you—'round to camp-meetin', and fairs, rightin' things, and doin' all the good I can. I've seen it. And, elder, they've made a mock Mason on him."

In the pioneer days of Illinois the making of mock Masons, or pseudo Sons of Malta, was a popular form of frolic, now almost forgotten. Young people formed mock lodges or secret societies, for the purpose of initiating new members by a series of tricks, which became the jokes of the community.

"Yes," said Aunt Olive, "and what do ye think they did? Well, in them societies they first test the courage of those who want to be new members. There's Judge Ball, now; when they tested his courage, what do you think? They blindfolded him, and turned up his blue jean trousers about the ankles, and said, 'Now let out the snakes!' and they took an elder-bush squirt-gun and squirted water over his feet; and the water was cold, and he thought it was snakes, and he jumped clear up to the cross-beams on the chamber floor, and screamed and screamed, and they wouldn't have him."

Jasper had never heard of these rude methods of making jokes and odd stories in the backwoods.

"What did they do to test Abraham's courage?" he asked.

"I don't know—blindfolded him and dressed him up like a donkey, and led him up to a lookin'-glass, and made him promise that he would never tell what he saw, and then onbandaged his eyes—or something of that kind. His courage stood the test. Of course it did; no matter what they might have done, no one could frighten Abe. But he got the best o' them."

"How?"

"He took up a collection for a poor woman that he had met on the way, and proposed to change the society into a committee for the relief of the poor and sufferin'."

"That shows his heart again."

"I knew that you would say that, elder."

"Everything that I hear of Lincoln shows how that his character grows. It is my daily prayer that Waubeno may hear of how he saved Main-Pogue. It would change the heart of Waubeno. He will know of it some day, and then he will fulfill his promise to me."

The Tunker sat down in the door under the blooming cherry-trees, and Aunt Olive brought a tray of food, and they ate their supper there.



Afar stretched the prairies. The larks quivered in the air, happy in the May-time, and gurgling with song. In the sunny outlines were seen a train of prairie schooners winding over the plain.

These were rude times, when all things were new. Men were purchasing the future by hardship and toil. But the two religious enthusiasts presented a happy picture as they sat under the cherry-trees and talked of camp-meetings, and the inner light, and all they had experienced, and ate their frugal meal. Odd though their views and beliefs and habits may seem in some respects, each had a definite purpose of good; each lived in the horizon of bright prospects here and hereafter, and each was happy.



CHAPTER XXI.

PRAIRIE ISLAND.

The beautiful country between Lake Michigan, or old Fort Dearborn, and the Mississippi, or Rock Island, was once a broad prairie, a sea of flowers, birds, and bright insects. The buffaloes roamed over it in great herds, and the buffalo-birds followed them. The sun rose over it as over a sea, and the arched aurora rose red above it like some far gate of a land of fire. Here the Sacs and Foxes roamed free; the Iowas and the tribes of the North. It was one vast sunland, a breeze-swept brightness, almost without a dot or shadow.

Almost, but not quite. Here and there, like islands in a summer sea, rose dark groves of oak and vines. These spots of refreshment were called prairie islands, and in one of these islands, now gone, a pioneer colony made their homes, and built a meeting-house, which was also to be used as a school-house. Six or more of these families were from Germantown, Pennsylvania, and were Tunkers. The other families were from the New England States.

To this nameless village, long ago swept away by the prairie fires, went Jasper the Parable, with his cobbling-tools, his stories, and his gospel of universal love and good-will. The Tunkers welcomed him with delight, and the emigrants from New England looked upon him kindly as a good and well-meaning man. There were some fifteen or twenty children in the settlement, and here the peaceful disciple of Pestalozzi, and friend of Froebel, applied for a place to teach, and the school was by unanimous consent assigned to him.

So began the school at Prairie Island—a school where the first principles of education were perceived and taught, and that might furnish a model for many an ambitious institution of to-day.

"It is life that teaches," the Parable used to say, quoting Pestalozzi. "The first thing to do is to form the habits that lead to character; the next thing is to stamp the young mind with right views of life; then comes book-learning—words, figures, and maps—but stories that educate morally are the primer of life. Christ taught spiritual truths by parables. I teach formative ideas by parables. The teacher should be a story-teller. In my own country all children go through fairy-land. Here they teach the young figures first, as though all of life was a money-market. It is all unnatural and wrong. I must teach and preach by stories."

The school-house was a simple building of logs and prairie grass, with oiled paper for windows, and a door that opened out and afforded a view of the vast prairie-sea to the west. Jasper taught here five days in a week, and sang, prayed, and exhorted on Sunday afternoons, and led social meetings on Sunday evenings. The little community were united, peaceful, and happy. They were industrious, self-respecting people, who were governed by their moral sense, and their governing principle seemed to be the faith that, if a person desired and sought to follow the divine will, he would have a revelation of spiritual light, which would be like the opening of the gates of heaven to him. Nearly every man and woman had some special experience of the soul to tell; and if ever there was a community of simple faith and brotherhood, it was here.

Jasper's school began in the summer, when the sun was high, the cool shadows of the oaks grateful, and the bluebells filled the tall, wavy grasses, and the prairie plover swam in the air.

Jasper's first teaching was by the telling of stories that leave in the young mind right ideas and impressions.

"My children, listen," said the gracious old man, as he sat down to his rude desk, "and let me tell you some stories like those Pestalozzi used to tell. Still, now!"

He lifted his finger and his eyebrows, and sat a little while in silence.

"Hark!" he said. "Hear the birds sing in the trees! Nature is teaching us. When Nature is teaching I listen. Nature is a greater teacher than I, or any man."

The little school sat in silence and listened. They had never heard the birds sing in that way before. Presently there was a hush in the trees.

"Now I will begin," said he.

PESTALOZZI'S STORIES.

"Did you ever see a mushroom? Yes, there are mushrooms under the cool trees. Once, in the days when the plants and flowers and trees all talked—they talk now, but we have ceased to hear them, a little mushroom bowed in the winds, and said to the grass:

"'See how I grow! I came up in a single night. I am smart.'

"'Yes,' said the grass, waving gently.

"'But you,' said the smart little mushroom, 'it takes you a whole year to grow.'

"The grass was sorry that it took so long for it to grow, and hung its head, and thought, and thought.

"'But,' said the grass, 'you spring up in the night, and in a day or two you are gone. It takes me a year to grow, but I outlive a hundred crops of mushrooms. I will have patience and be content. Worth is of slow growth.'

"In a week the boastful little mushroom was gone, but the grass bloomed and bore seed, and left a lovely memory behind it. Hark! hear the breeze in the trees! Nature is teaching now. Listen!

"Now I will tell you another little story, such as I used to hear Pestalozzi relate. I am going to tell this story to myself, but you may listen. I have told a story to you, but now I will talk to myself.

"There once was a king, who had been riding in the sun, and he saw afar a lime-tree, full of cool, green leaves. Oh, how refreshing it looked to him! So he rode up to the lime-tree, and rested in the shadow.

"The leaves all clung to the branches, and the winds whispered among them, but did not blow them away.

"Then the king loved the tree, and he said:

"'O tree, would that my people clung to me as thy leaves do to thy branches!'

"The tree was pleased, and spoke:

"'Would you learn from me wisdom to govern thy people?'

"'Yes, O lime-tree! Speak on.'

"'Would you know, then, what makes my leaves so cling to my branches?'

"'Yes, O Lime Tree! Speak on.'

"'I carry to them the sap that nourishes them. 'Tis he that gives himself to others that lives in others, and is safe and happy himself. Do that, and thy kingdom shall be a lime-tree.'"

A child brought into the room a bunch of harebells and laid them upon the teacher's desk.

"Look!" said Jasper, "Nature is teaching. Let us be quiet a little and hear what she has to say. The harebells bring us good-will from the sun and skies. There is goodness everywhere, and for all. Let us be grateful.

"Now I will give you another little Pestalozzian story, told in my own way, and you may tell it to your fathers and mothers and neighbors when you go home.

"There was once a man who had two little ponies. They were pretty creatures, and just alike. He sold one of them to a hard-hearted man, who kicked him and beat him; and the pony said:

"'The man is my enemy. I will be his, and become a cunning and vicious horse.'

"So the pony became cunning and vicious, and threw his rider and crippled him, and grew spavined and old, and every one was glad when he was dead.

"The man sold the other pony to a noble-hearted man, who treated him kindly and well. Then the pony said:

"'I am proud of my master. I will become a good horse, and my master's will shall be my own.'

"Like the master became the horse. He became strong and beautiful. They chose him for the battle, and he went through the wars, and the master slept by his side. He bore his master at last in a triumphal procession, and all the people were sorry when he came to die. Our minds here are one of the little colts.

"So we will all work together. The lesson is ended. You have all the impressions that you can bear for one day. Now we will go out and play."

But the play-ground was made a field of teaching.

"There are plays that form right ideas," said Jasper, "and plays that lead to an evil character. I teach no plays that lead to cruelty or deception. I would no sooner withhold amusements from my little ones than water, but my amusements, like the water, must be healthy and good."

There was one odd play that greatly delighted all the children of the Prairie Island school. The idea of it was evolved in the form of a popular song many years afterward. In it the children are supposed to ask an old German musician how many instruments of music he could play, and he acts out in pantomime all of the instruments he could blow or handle. We think it was this merriment that became known in America as the song of Johnnie Schmoker in the minstrel days.

Not the children only, but the parents also all delighted to see Jasper pretend to play all the instruments of the German band. Often at sunset, when the settlers came in from the corn-fields and rested under the great trees, Jasper would delight the islanders, as they called themselves, with this odd play.

"The purpose of education," Jasper used to repeat over and over to his friends in this sunny island of the prairie sea, "is not to teach the young how to make money or get wealth by a cunning brain, but how to live for the soul. The soul's best interests are in life's highest interest, and there is no poverty in the world that is like spiritual poverty. In the periods of poetry a nation is great; and when poetry fails, the birds cease to sing and the flowers to bloom, and divinities go away, and the heart turns to stone."

There was one story that he often repeated to his little school. The pupils liked it because there was action in it, as in the play-story of the German musician. He called it "CHINK, CHINK, CHINK"—though we believe a somewhat similar story is told in Germany under the name of "The Stone-cold Heart."

He would clasp his hands together and strike them upon his knee, making a sound like the jingling of silver coin. Any one can produce this curious sound by the same action.

"Chink, chink, chink," he would say. "Do you hear it? Chink, chink, chink. Listen, as I strike my hands on my knees. Money? Now I will open my hands. There is no money in them; it was fool's gold, all.

"There lived in a great German forest a poor woodman. He was a giant, but he had a great heart and a willing arm, and he worked contentedly for many years.

"One day he chanced to go with some foresters into the city. It was a festival day. He heard the jingle of money, just like that" (striking his clasped hands on his knee). "He saw what money would buy. He thought it would buy happiness. He did not know that it was fool's gold, all.

"He went back to his little hut in the forest feeling very unhappy. His wife kissed him on his return, and his children gathered around him to hear him tell the adventures of the day, but his downcast spirit made them all sad.

"'What has happened?' asked his wife. 'You always seemed happy until to-night.'

"'And I was always happy until to-day. But I have seen the world to-day, and now I want that which will buy everything.'

"'And what is that?' asked his wife.

"'Listen! It sounds like that,' and he struck his clasped hands on his knee—chink, chink, chink. 'If I had that, I would bring to you and the little ones the fine things I saw in the city, and you would be happy. You are contented now because you do not know.'

"'But I would rather that you would bring to me a happy face and loving heart,' said his wife. 'You know that the Book says that "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." Love makes happiness, and gold is in the heart.'

"The forester continued to be sad. He would sit outside of his door at early evening and pound his hands upon his knees so—chink, chink, chink—and think of the gay city. Then he would strike his hands on his knees again. He did not know that it was fool's gold, all.

"He grew more and more discontented with his simple lot. One day he went out into the forest alone to cut wood. When he had become tired he sat down by a running stream to hear the birds sing and to strike his hands on his knees.

"A shadow came gliding across the mosses of the stream. It was like the form of a dark man. Slowly it came on, and as it did so the flowers on the banks of the stream withered. The woodman looked up, and a black giant stood before him.

"'You look unhappy to-day,' said the black giant. 'You did not use to look that way. What is wanting?'

"The woodman looked down, clasped his hands, and struck them on his knees—chink, chink, chink.

"'Ah, I see—money! The world all wants money. Selfishness could not thrive without money. I will give you all the money that you want, on one condition.'

"'Name it.'

"'That you will exchange your heart.'

"'What will you give me for my heart?'

"'Your heart is a human heart, a very simple human heart. I will put in its place a heart of stone, and then all your wishes shall turn to gold. Whatever you wish you shall have.'

"'Shall I be happy?'

"'Happy! Ha, ha, ha! are not people happy who have their wishes?'

"'Some are, and some are happy who give up their wishes and wills and desires."

"The woodman leaned his face upon his hands for a while, seemed in great doubt and distress. He thought of his wife, who used to say that contentment was happiness, and that one could be rich by having a few wants. Then he thought of the city. The vision rose before him like a Vanity Fair. He clasped his hands again, and struck them on his knees—chink, chink, chink—and said, 'I will do it.'

"Suddenly he felt a heart within him as cold as stone. He looked up to the giant, and saw that he held his own good, true heart in his hands.

"'I will put it away in a glass jar in my house,' he said, 'where I keep the hearts of the rich. Now, listen. You have only to strike your locked hands on your knees three times—chink, chink, chink—whenever you want for gold, and wish, and you will find your pockets full of money.'

"The woodman struck his palms on his knees and wished, then felt in his pockets. Sure enough, his pockets were full of gold.

"He thought of his wife, but his thought was a cold one; he did not love her any more. He thought of his little ones, but his thoughts were frozen; he did not care to meet them any more. He thought of his parents, but he only wished to meet them to excite their envy. The stream no longer charmed him, nor the flowers, nor the birds, nor anything.

"'I will dissemble,' he said. He hurried home. His wife met him at the door. He kissed her. She started back, and said:

"'Your lips are cold as death! What has happened?'

"His children kissed him, but they said:

"'Father, your cheeks are cold.'

"He tried to pray at the meal, but his sense of God was gone; he did not love God, or his wife, or his children, or anything any more—he had a stone-cold heart.

"After the evening meal he told his wife the events of the day. She listened with horror.

"'In parting with your heart you have parted with everything that makes life worth having,' said she. But he answered:

"'I do not care. I do not care for anything but gold now. I have a stone-cold heart.'

"'But will gold make you happy?' she asked.

"He started. He went forth to work the next day, but he was not happy. So day by day passed. His gold did not make his family happy, or his friends, or any one, but he would not have cared for all these, for he had a stone-cold heart. Had it made him happy? He saw the world all happy around him, and heavier and heavier grew his heart, and at last he could endure it no longer.

"One day he was sitting in the same place in the woods as before, when he saw the shadowy figure stealing along the mosses of the stream again. He looked up and beheld the giant, and exclaimed:

"'Give me back my heart!'"

"Have you learned the lesson?"



CHAPTER XXII.

THE INDIAN PLOT.

One sultry August night a party of Sac and Fox Indians were encamped in a grove of oaks opposite Rock Island, on the western side of the Mississippi. Among them were Main-Pogue and Waubeno.

The encampment commanded a view of the burial hills and bluffs of the abandoned Sac village.

As the shadow of night stole over the warm, glimmering twilight, and the stars came out, the lights in the settlers' cabins began to shine; and as the Indians saw them one by one, their old resentment against the settlers rose and bitter words passed, and an old warrior stood up to rehearse his memories of the injustice that his race had suffered in the old treaties and the late war.

"Look," he said, "at the eyes of the cabins that gleam from yonder shore. The waters roll dark under them, but the lights of the canoes no more haunt the rapids, and the women and children may no more sit down by the graves of the braves of old. Our lights have gone out; their lights shine. Their lights shine on the bluffs, and they twinkle like fireflies along the prairies, and climb the cliffs in what was once the Red Man's Paradise. Like the fireflies to the night the white settlers came.

"Rise up and look down into the water. There—where the stream runs dark—they shot our starving women there, for crossing the river to harvest their own corn.

"Look again—there where the first star shines. She, the wife of Wabono, floated there dead, with the babe on her breast. Here is the son of Wabono.

"Son of Wabono, you ride the pony like the winds. What are you going to do to avenge your mother? You have nourished the babe; you are good and brave; but the moons rise and fall, and the lights grow many on the prairie, and the smoke-wreaths many along the shore. Speak, son of Wabono."

A tall boy arose, dressed in yellow skins and painted and plumed.

"Father, it is long since the rain fell."

"Long."

"And the prairies are yellow."

"Yellow."

"And they are food for fire."

"Food for fire."

"I would touch them with fire—in the east, in the west, in the north, and in the south. The lights will go out in the cabins, and the white woman will wander homeless, and the white man will hunger for corn. They shot our people for harvesting our corn. I would give their corn-fields to the flames, and their families to the famine in the moons of storms."

"Waubeno, you have heard Wabono. What would you do?"

"I would punish those only who have done wrong. The white teacher taught so, and the white teacher was right."

"Waubeno, you speak like a woman."

"Those people should not suffer for what others have done. You should not be made to bear the punishments of others."

"Would you not fire the prairies?"

"No. I may have friends there. The Tunker may be there. He who spared Main-Pogue may be there. Would I burn their cabins? No!"

"Waubeno, who was your father?"

"I am the son of Alknomook."

"He died."

"Yes, father."

"There was neither pity nor mercy in the white man's heart for him. You made your vow to him. What was that vow, Waubeno?"

"To avenge his enemies—not our friends."

"Brothers, listen. The white men grow many, and we are few. In war we are helpless—only one weapon remains to us now. It is the thunderbolt—it is fire.

"Warriors, listen. The moon grows. Who of you will cross the river and ride once more into the Red Man's Paradise, and give the prairies to the flames? The torch is all that is left us now."

Every Indian raised his arm except Main-Pogue and Waubeno, and signified his desire to unite in the plan for the desolation of the prairies.

"Main-Pogue, will you carry your torch in the night of fire?"

"I have been saved by the hand of a white man, and I will not turn my hand against the white man. I could not do it if I were young. But I am old—my people are gone. Leave me to fall like the leaf."

"Son of Alknomook, what will you do?"

"I will follow your counsel for my father's sake, but I will spare my friends for the sake of the arm that was stretched out over the head of Main-Pogue."

"Then you will go."

"I would that I were dead. I would that I could live as the white teacher taught me—in peace with every one. I would that I had not this blood of fire, and this memory of darkness, and this vow upon my head. The white teacher taught me that all people were brothers. My brain burns—"

Late in the evening Waubeno went to Main-Pogue and sat down by his side under the trees. The river lay before them with its green islands and rapid currents, serene and beautiful. The lights had gone out on the other shore, and the world seemed strangely voiceless and still.

"How did he look, Waubeno?"

"Who look?"

"That man who saved you—stretched his arm over you."

"His arm was long. His face was as sad as an Indian's; and he was tall. He was a head taller than other men; he rose over them like an oak over the trees. The men laughed at him; then his face looked as though it was set against the people—he looked like a chief—and the men cowered, and jeered, and cowered. I can see how he looked, but I can not tell it—I can see it in my mind. I told him that I would tell Waubeno, and he seemed to know your name. Did you never meet such a man?"

"Yes, in the Indiana country. He was journeyed from the Wabash."

The Indians, after the council we have described, began to cross the Mississippi by night, and to make stealthy journeys into the Rock River country, once known as the Red Man's Paradise. Rock River is a beautiful stream of the prairies. It comes dashing out of a bed of rocks, and runs a distance of some two hundred miles to the Mississippi. Here once roamed the deer and came the wild cattle in herds. Here rose great cliffs, like ruins of castles, which were then, as now, cities of the swallows. Eagles built their nests upon them, and wheeled from over the flowers of the prairies. The banks in summer were lined with wild strawberries and wild sunflowers. Here and there were natural mounds and park-like woods, and oaks whose arms were tangled with grapevines.

Into this country ran Black Hawk's trail, and not far from this trail was Prairie Island, with its happy settlers and new school. The German school-master might well love the place. Margaret Fuller (Countess Ossoli) came to the region in 1843, and caught its atmosphere and breathed it forth in her Summer in the Lakes. Here, in this territory of the Red Man's Paradise, "to me enchanting beyond any I have ever seen," where "you have only to turn up the sod to find arrow-heads," she visited the bluff of the Eagles' Nest on the morning of the Fourth of July, and there wrote "Ganymede to his Eagle," one of her grandest poems.

"How happy," says this gifted soul, "the Indians must have been here! I do believe Rome and Florence are suburbs compared to this capital of Nature's art."

Black Hawk's trail ran from this region of perfect beauty to the Mississippi; and long after the Sacs and Foxes were compelled to live beyond the Mississippi, the remnants of the tribes loved to return and visit the scenes of the land of their fathers.

The Indians who had plotted the firing of the prairies made two stealthy journeys along the Rock River and over the old trail under the August moon. In one of these they rode round Prairie Island, and encamped one night upon the bluff of the Eagles' Nest, under the moon and stars. Waubeno went with them, and gazed with sad eyes upon the scenes that had passed forever from the control of his people.

He saw the new cabins and corn-fields, the prairie wagons and the emigrants. One evening he passed Prairie Island, and saw the lights glimmering among the trees, and heard the singing of a hymn in the school-house, where the people had met to worship. He wished that his own people might be taught these better ways of living. He reined up his pony and listened to the singing. He wished that he might join the little company, though he did not know that Jasper was there.

He rode away amid the stacks and corn-fields. He saw that the fields were dry as powder.

Out on the prairie he turned and looked back on the lights of the settlement as they glimmered among the trees. Could he apply the torch to the dry sea of grasses around the peaceful homes?

Once, revenge would have made it a delight to his eyes to see such a settlement in flames. But Jasper's teaching had created a new view of life and a new conscience. He felt what the Tunker taught was true, and that the young soldier who had spared Main-Pogue had done a nobler deed than any act of revenge. What was that young man's motive? He pondered over these things, and gave his pony a loose rein, and rode on under the cool cover of the night under the moon and stars.



CHAPTER XXIII.

FOR LINCOLN'S SAKE.

"The prairie is on fire!" So cried a horseman, as he rode by the school.

It was a calm, glimmering September day. Prairie Island rose with red and yellow and crisping leaves, like a royal tent amid a dead sea of flowers. The prairie grass was dry, though still mingled with a green undergrowth. Prairie chickens were everywhere, quails, and plover.

At midday a billowy cloud of smoke began to wall the eastern horizon, and it slowly rolled forward, driven by the current of the air.

"O-o-oh!" said one of the scholars! "Look! look! What the man said is true—the prairie is on fire!"

Jasper went to the door. The blue sky had turned to an ashy hue, and the sun was a dull red. An unnatural wind had arisen like a draft of air.

"Teacher, can we go out and look?" asked several voices.

"Yes," said Jasper, "the school may take a recess."

The pupils went to the verge of the trees, and watched the billowy columns of smoke in the distance.

The world seemed to change. The air filled with flocks of frightened birds. The sky became veiled, and the sun was as red as blood.

Since the great snow of 1830 but few buffaloes had been seen on the prairie. But a dark cloud of flesh came bounding over the prairie grass, bellowing, with low heads and erect tails. The children thought that they were cattle at first, but they were buffaloes. They rushed toward the trees of Prairie Island, turned, and looked behind. Then the leader pawed the earth, and the herd rushed on toward the north.

The fire spread in a semicircle, and seemed to create a wind which impelled it on with resistless fury.

"O-o-oh, look! look!" exclaimed another scholar. "See the horses and the cattle—droves of them! Look at the sky—see the birds!"

There were droves of cattle hurrying in every direction. The men in the fields near Prairie Island came hurrying home.

"The prairie is on fire!" said each one, not knowing what else to say.

"Will it reach us?" asked Jasper of the harvesters.

"What is to hinder it? The wind is driving it this way. It has formed a wall of fire that almost surrounds us."

"What can we do?" asked Jasper. The harvesters considered.

"We are safer here than elsewhere, let what will come," said one. "If the fire sweeps the prairie, it would overtake us before we could get to any great river, and the small creeks are dry."

The afternoon grew darker and darker. The sun went out; under the black smoke rolled a red sea whose waves grew nearer and nearer. The children began to cry and the women to pray. An old man came hobbling out to the arch of the trees.

"I foretold it," said he. "The world is on fire. The Day of Judgment has come! A time and times time, and a half."

He had been a Millerite.

"It will be here in an hour," said a harvester.

But there arose a counter-wind. The wall of fire seemed to be stayed. The smoke columns rose to the heavens like Babel towers.

Afar, families were seen fleeing on horseback toward the bed of a creek which they hoped to find flowing, but which had run dry.

"This is awful!" said Jasper. "It looks as though the heavens were in flames."

He shaded his hands and looked into the open space.

"What is that?" he asked.

A black horse came running toward the island, bounding through the grass as though impelled by spurs. As he leered, Jasper saw the form of a human being stretched at his side. Was the form an Indian?

On came the horse. He leered again, exposing to view a yellow body and a plumed head.

"It's an Indian," said Jasper.

The fire flattened and darkened for a time, and then rolled on again. Animals were fleeing everywhere, plunging and bellowing, and the air was wild and tempestuous with the cries of birds. The little animals could be seen leaping out of the prairie grass. The earth, air, and sky seemed alive with terror.

The black horse came plunging toward the island.

"How can a horse run that way and live?" asked Jasper. "He is bearing a messenger. It is friendly or hostile Indian that is clinging to his side."

Jasper bent his eyes on the plunging animal to see him leer, for whenever the sidling motion was made it brought to view the tawny horizontal form that seemed to be clinging to the bridle, as if riding for life. Suddenly there arose a cry from the islanders:

"Look! look! Who has done it? There is a counter-fire ahead. They will all perish!"

A mile or more in front of the island, and in the opposite direction from the other fire, another great billow of smoke arose spirally into the air. The people and animals who had been fleeing toward the creek, which they thought contained water, but which was dry, all turned and came running toward the island grove. Even the birds came beating back.

"That fire was set by the Indians," said the harvesters. "It is started across the track of the other fire to destroy us all. An Indian set the fires."

"That is an Indian skirting around us on the back of a horse," said another. "He is holding on to the horse by the mane with his hands, and by the flanks with his feet. The Indians have done this!"

"The other fire will run back, though against the wind. The prairie is so dry that the fire will run everywhere. We must set a counter-fire."

"Set a counter-fire!" exclaimed many voices.

The purpose of the counter-fire was to destroy the dry grass, so that when the other fires should reach the place it would find nothing to burn.

"But the people!" said Jasper. "See them! They are hurrying here; a counter-fire would drive them away!"

An awful scene followed. Horses, cattle, animals of many kinds came panting to the island. Many of them had been fleeing for miles, and sank down under the trees as if ready to perish. There was one enormous bison among them. The tops of the trees were filled with birds, cawing and uttering a chaos of cries. The air seemed to rain birds, and the earth to pour forth animals. The sky above turned to inky blackness. Men, women, and children came rushing into the trees from every direction, some crying on Heaven for mercy, some begging for water, all of them exhausted and seemingly ready to die. The island grove was like a great funeral pyre.

Jasper lifted his hands and called the school and the people around him, knelt down, and prayed for help amid the cries of distress that rose on every hand. He then looked for the black horse and the plumed rider again.

They were drawing near in the darkening air. The figure of the rider was more distinct. The people saw it, and cried, "An Indian!" Some said, "It is a scout!" and others, "It is he who set the fire!"

The wind rose and changed, caused by the heated air in the distance. The currents ran hither and thither like drafts in a room of open doors. One of these unnatural drafts caused a new terror to spread among the people and animals and birds. It drew up into the air a great column of sparks and, scattered them through the open space, and a rain of fire filled the sky and descended upon the grove.



It was a splendid but terrible sight.

"The end of all things is at hand," said the old Millerite. "The stars are beginning to fall."

But the rain of fire lost its force as it neared the earth, and it fell in cinders and ashes.

"An Indian! an Indian!" cried many voices.

The black horse came plunging into near view, and rushed for the trees and sank down with foaming sides and mouth. The people shouted. There rolled from his side the lithe and supple form of a young Indian, plumed, and dressed in yellow buckskin. What did it mean? The Indian lay on the ground like one dead. The people gathered around him, and Jasper came to him and bent over him, and parted the black hair from his face. Suddenly Jasper started back and uttered a cry.

"What is it?" asked the people.

"It is my old Indian guide—it is Waubeno. Bring him water, and we will revive him, and he will tell us what to do.—Waubeno! Waubeno!"

The Indian seemed to know that voice. He revived, and looked around him, and stared at the people.

"Give him water," said Jasper.

A boy brought a cup of water and offered it to the Indian. The latter started up, and cried:

"Away! I am here to die among you. My tongue burns, but I did not come here to drink. I came here to die. The white man killed my father, and I have come back with the avengers, and we have brought with us the Judgment Day." He stood and listened to the cries of distress.

"Hear the trees cry for help—all the birds of the prairie—but they cry for naught. My father hears them cry. The cry is sweet to his ears. He is waiting for me. We are all about to die. When the wheat-fields blaze and the stacks take fire, and the houses crackle, then we shall all die. So says Waubeno." He listened again.

"Hear the earth cry—all the animals. My father hears—his soul hears. This is the day that I have carried in my soul. My spirit is in the fire."

He listened again. The prairie roared with the hot air, the flames, and the clouds of smoke. There fell another rain of fire, and women shrieked for mercy, and children cried on their mothers' breasts.

"Hear the people cry! I have waited for that cry for a hundred moons. I have paid my vow. We have kindled the fire of the anger of the heavens—it is coming. I will die with you like the son of a warrior. The souls of the warriors are gathering to see me die. I am Waubeno."

The people pressed upon him, and glared at him.

"He set the fire!" they cried. "The Indian fiend!"

"I set the fire," he said; "I and Black Hawk's men. They have escaped. I have done my work, and I want to die."

Jasper lifted his hat, and with bared head stood forth in the view of the Indian.

"Waubeno, do you want to see me die?"

He started with a cry of pain. His eyes burned.

"My father—I did not know that you were here. Heaven pity Waubeno now!"

"Waubeno, this is cruel!"

"Cruel? This country was once called the Red Man's Paradise. Cruel? The white man made the red man drunk with fire-water, and made him sign a false treaty, and then drove him away. Cruel? Think of the women the whites shot in the river for coming back to their own corn-fields starving to gather their own corn. Cruel? Why is the Red Man's Paradise no longer ours? Cruel? The Rock River flows for us no more; the spring brings the flowers to these prairies for us no more; the bluff rises in the summer sky, but the red man may no longer sit upon it. Cruel? Think how your people murdered my father. Is it more cruel for the Indian to do these things than for the white man to do them? You have emptied the Red Man's Paradise, and Waubeno has fulfilled the vow that he made to his father. The clouds are on fire. I would have saved you had I known, but you must perish with your people. I shall die with you. I am Waubeno. I am proud to be Waubeno. I am the avenger of my race.

"But, white brother, listen. I tried to prevent it. I remembered your teaching, and I tried to prevent it by our council-fires over the Mississippi. Main-Pogue tried to prevent it. I thought of the man who saved him in the war, and I wondered who he was, and tried to prevent it for his sake.

"Then said they to me: 'We go to avenge the loss of our country, the Red Man's Paradise. The grass is feathers. We go to burn. Waubeno, remember your father's death. You are the son of Alknomook!'

"White brother, I have come. I tried to prevent it, but this hand has obeyed the voice of my people. I have kindled the fires of the woe. The world is on fire. I tried to prevent it, but it has come."

"Waubeno, do you remember Lincoln?"

"Lincoln? The Indians killed his father's father. I have often thought of that. He said that he would do right by an Indian. I have thought of that. I love that man. I would die for such a man."

"Waubeno, who saved the life of Main-Pogue?"

"I don't know, father. I would die for that man."

"Did Main-Pogue not tell you?"

"He told me 'twas a white captain saved him. Is the white captain here?"

"No. Waubeno, listen. That white captain was Lincoln."

"Lincoln? Whose father's father the red man killed? Was it he who saved Main-Pogue? Lincoln? He forced his men to do right. He did himself harm."

"Yes, he did himself harm to do right. Waubeno, do you remember your promise that you made to me? You said that you would never avenge the death of your father, if you could find one white man who would do himself harm for the sake of an Indian."

Waubeno leaped upon his feet, and his black eye swept the clouds, and the circle of fire, and the distressed people on every hand.

"Father, I can save you now. I know how. I will do it for Lincoln's sake.

"Ho! ho!" he cried. "Kill me an ox, and Waubeno will save you. Kill me six oxen, and Waubeno will save you. Give me raw hides, and do as I do, and Waubeno will save you. Ho! ho! The gods have spoken to Waubeno. A voice comes from the sky to Waubeno. It has spoken here. Ho! ho!"

He put his hand upon his heart, then rushed in among the oxen. A company of men followed him.

He slew an ox with his knife, and quickly removed the hide. The people looked upon him with horror; they thought him demented. What was he doing? What was he going to do?

He tied the great hide to his horse's neck, so that the raw side of it would drag flat upon the ground, and, turning to Jasper, he said:

"That will smother fire. Ho! ho! How?"

The fire was fast approaching some stacks of wheat on the edge of the settlement. Waubeno saw the peril, and leaped upon his horse.

"Kill more cattle. Get more hides for Waubeno," he said.

He rode away toward the stacks, guiding the horse in such a way that the raw hide swept the ground. The people watched him. He seemed to ride into the fire.

"He is riding to death!" said the people. "He is mad!"

But as he rode the fire was stayed, and a rim of black smoke rose in its stead. Near the stacks the fire stopped.

"He is the Evil One himself," said the old Millerite. "That Indian boy is no human form."

Out of the black came the horse plunging, bearing the boy, who waved his hands to the people. Then the horse plunged away, as though wild, toward the outer edge of the great sea of fire.

The horse and rider rushed into the flames, and the same strange effects followed. The running flame and white cloud changed into black smoke, and the destruction was arrested.

The people watched the boy as he rode half hidden in rolling smoke, his red plumes waving above the verge of the flaming sea. What a scene it was as he rode there, round and round, like the enchanted form of a more than human deliverer! But the effect of his movements at last ceased.

"He is coming back," said the people.

Out of the fire rushed the horse and rider toward the island grove again.

"Give me new hides!" he cried, as, singed and blackened, he swept into the trees. "The hide is dead and shriveled. Give me new hides. Ho! ho!"

New hides were provided by killing oxen. He tied two together like a carpet, with the raw side upon the earth. He attached them by a long rope to the horse's neck, and dashed forth again, crying:

"Do the same, and follow me."

The horse seemed maddened again. It flew toward the fire as if drawn by a spell, and plunged into it like a bather into the sea. Waubeno tried to deaden the fire in the whole circle. Round and round the island he rode, in the tide of the advancing flames. The people understood his method now, and the men secured new hides and attached them to horses, and followed him. He led them, crying and waving his hands. Round and round he led them, round and round, and where they rode the white smoke changed into black smoke and the fire died.

The people secured raw hides by killing the poor cattle, and came out to the verge of the fiery sea and checked the progress of the flames in places. In the midst of the excitement a roll of thunder was heard in the sky.

"'Tis the trumpet of doom," said the old Millerite.

The people heard it with terror, and yet with hope. It might be an approaching shower. If it were, they were saved.

The fire in front of them was checked. Not the great sea, but the current that was rolling toward the island grove. The fire at the north was rushing forward, but it moved backward toward the place slowly. The women began to soak blankets and clothing in water, and so prepared to help the men fight the flames. An hour passed. In the midst of the crisis the riding men, the hurrying women, the encircling fire, the billows of smoke, a flame came zigzagging down from the sky. The people stood still. Had the last day indeed come?

Then followed a crash of thunder that shook the earth. The people fell upon their knees. The sky darkened, and great drops of rain began to fall.

Waubeno had checked the current of the flame that would have destroyed the settlement in an hour, and had taught the men how to arrest an advancing tide of flame. The people began to have hope. All was now activity on the part of the people. Smoke filled the sky.

"There is a cloud above the smoke," said many. "God will save us all."

Waubeno came flying back again to the grove.

"It thunders," he cried. "The Rain-god is coming. If I can keep back the fire an hour, the Rain-god will come. Hides! hides! Quick, more hides! Ho! ho!"

New hides were provided, and he swept forth again.

The island grove was now like a vast oven. The air was stifling. The animals laid down and rolled their tongues from their mouths. But the fire in front did not advance. It seemed deadened. The river of flame forked and ran in other directions, but it was stayed in front of the grove, houses, corn-fields, and stacks, and it was the hand that had set flames that had broken its force in the road to the settlements.

There were sudden dashes of rain, and the smoke turned into blackness everywhere. Another flash of lightning smote the gloom, followed by a rattling of thunder that seemed as if the spirit of the storm was driving his chariot through the air. Then it poured as though a lake was coming down. In an hour the fire was dead. The cloud parted, the slanting sun came out, revealing a prairie as black as ink.

The people fled to the shelter of the houses and sheds at the approach of the rain. The animals crowded under the trees, and the birds hid in the boughs. After the rain-burst the people gathered together again, and each one asked:

"Where is the Indian boy?"

He was not among them.

Had he perished?

A red sunset flamed over the prairies and the birds filled the tree-tops with the gladness of song. It seemed to all as if the earth and sky had come back again.

In the glare of the sunset-fire a horse and rider were seen slowly approaching the island grove.

"It is Waubeno," said one to the other. "The horse is disabled."

The people went out to meet the Indian boy. The horse was burned and blind, and staggered as he came on. And the rider! He had drawn the flames into his vitals; he had been internally burned, and was dying.

He reeled from his blind horse, and fell before the people. Jasper laid his hand upon him.

"Father, I have drunk the cup of fire. I have kept my promise. I am about to die. The birds are happy. They are singing the death-song of Waubeno."

His flesh quivered as he lay there, and Jasper bent over him in pity.

"Waubeno, do you suffer?"

"The stars do not complain, white brother. The clouded sun does not complain. The winds complain, and the waters, and women and children. Waubeno does not complain."

A spasm shook his frame. It passed.

"White brother, go beyond the Mississippi and teach my people. You do pity them. This was once their paradise. They loved it. They struggled. Go to them with the Book of God."

"Waubeno, I will go."

"The sun sets over the Mississippi. 'Tis sunset there. You will go to the land of the sunset?"

"Yes, Waubeno. I feel in my heart the call to go. I love and pity your people."

"Pour water upon me; I am burning. I shall go when the moon comes up, when the moon comes up into the shady sky. My father suffered, but he did not complain. Waubeno does not complain. Don't pity me. Pity my poor people. I love my people. Teach my people, and cover me forever with a blanket of the earth."

He lay on the cool grass under the trees for several hours in terrible agony, and the people watched by his side.

"When the moon rises," he said, "I shall go. I shall never see the Red Man's Paradise again. Tell me when the moon rises. I am going to sleep now."

The great moon rose at last, its disk hanging like a wheel of dead gold on the verge of the horizon in the smoky air.

"Waubeno," said Jasper, "the moon is rising."

He opened his eyes, and said:

"We kindled the fire for our fathers' sake, and I smote it for him who protected Main-Pogue. What was his name, father? Say it to me."

"Lincoln."

"Yes, Lincoln. He had come for revenge, but he did what was right. He forgave. I forgive everybody. I drank the fire for Lincoln's sake."

The moon burned along the sky; the stars came out; and at midnight all was still. Waubeno lay dead under the trees, and the people with timid steps vanished hither and thither into the cabins and sheds.

They killed the poor blind horse in the morning, and laid Waubeno to rest in a blanket, in a grave under the trees.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"OUR LINCOLN IS THE MAN."

Fifteen years have passed since the events described in the last chapter. It is the year 1860. A great political crisis is upon the country, and Abraham Lincoln has been selected to lead one great party of the people, because he had faith in the principle that right is might. The time came, as the Tunker had prophesied, when the people wanted a man of integrity for their leader—a man who had a heart that could be trusted. They elected him to the Legislature when he was almost a boy and had not decent clothes to wear. The young legislator walked over the prairies of Illinois to the Capitol to save the traveling fare. As a legislator he had faith that right is might, and was true to his convictions.

"He has a heart that we can trust," said the people, and they sent him to Congress. He was true in Washington, as in Illinois.

"He has a heart we can trust," said the people; "let us send him to the Senate."

He failed of an election, but it was because his convictions of right were in advance of the public mind at the time; but he who is defeated for a principle, triumphs. The greatest victors are those who are vanquished in the cause of truth, justice, and right; for the cause lives, and they live in the cause that must prevail.

Again the people wanted a leader—all the people who represented a great cause—and Illinois said to the people:

"Make our Lincoln your leader; he has a heart that we can trust," and Lincoln was made the heart of the people in the great cause of human rights. Lincoln, who had defended the little animals of the woods. Lincoln, who had been true to his pioneer father, when the experience had cost him years of toilsome life. Lincoln, who had pitied the slave in the New Orleans market, and whose soul had cried to Heaven for the scales of Justice. Lincoln, who had protected the old Indian amid the gibes of his comrades. Lincoln, who had studied by pine-knots, made poetry on old shovels, and read law on lonely roads. Lincoln, who had had a kindly word and pleasant story for everybody, pitied everybody, loved everybody, and forgave everybody, and yet carried a sad heart. Lincoln, who had resolved that in law and politics he would do just right.

John Hanks had brought some of the rails that the candidate for the presidency had split into the Convention of Illinois, and the rails that represented the hardships of pioneer life became the oriflamme of the leader from the prairies. He who is true to a nation is first true to his parents and home.

That was an ever-to-be-remembered day when, in August, 1860, the people of the great West with one accord arranged to visit Abraham Lincoln, the candidate for the presidency, at Springfield, Illinois. Seventy thousand strangers poured into the prairie city. They came from Indiana, Iowa, and the lakes. Thousands came from Chicago. Men came in wagons, bringing their wives and children. They brought tents, camp-kettles, and coffee-pots. Says a graphic writer who saw the scene:

"Every road leading to the city is crowded for twenty miles with vehicles. The weather is fine, and a little overwarm. Girls can dress in white, and bare their arms and necks without danger; the women can bring their children. Everything that was ever done at any other mass-meeting is done here. Locomotive-builders are making a boiler; blacksmiths are heating and hammering their irons; the iron-founders are molding their patterns; the rail-splitters are showing the people how Uncle Abe used to split rails; every other town has its wagon-load of thirty-one girls in white to represent the States; bands of music, numerous almost as those of McClellan on Arlington Heights in 1862, are playing; old men of the War of 1812, with their old wives, their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, are here: making a procession of human beings, horses, and carriages not less than ten miles in length. And yet the procession might have left the town and the people would scarcely be missed.

"There is an immense wigwam, with galleries like a theatre; but there are people enough not in the procession to fill a dozen like it. Half an hour is long enough to witness the moving panorama of men and women, horses, carriages, representatives of trades, mottoes, and burlesques, and listen to the bands."

And among those who came to see the great procession, the rail-splitters, and the sights, were the Tunker from the Indian schools over the Mississippi, and Aunt Indiana from Indiana.

There was a visitor from the East who became the hero of the great day. He is living now (1891) in Chelsea, Mass., near the Soldiers' Home, to which he often goes to sing, and is known there as "Father Locke." He was a natural minstrel, and songs of his, like "Down by the Sea," have been sung all over the world. One of his songs has moved thousands of hearts in sorrow, and pictures his own truly loving and beautiful soul:

"There's a fresh little mound near the willow, Where at evening I wander and weep; There's a dear vacant spot on my pillow, Where a sweet little face used to sleep. There were pretty blue eyes, but they slumber In silence, beneath the dark mold, And the little pet lamb of our number Has gone to the heavenly fold."

This man, with the approval of President Lincoln, went as a minstrel to the Army of the Potomac. We think that he was the only minstrel who followed our army, like the war-singers of old. In a book published for private use, entitled Three Years in Camp and Hospital, "Father Locke" thus tells the story of his interview with President Lincoln at the White House:

"Giving his hand, and saying he recollected me, he asked what he could do for me.

"'I want no office, Mr. President. I came to ask for one, but have changed my mind since coming into this house. When it comes to turning beggar, I shall shun the places where all the other beggars go. I am going to the army to sing for the soldiers, as the poets and balladists of old sang in war. Our soldiers must take as much interest in songs and singing as did those of ancient times. I only wished to shake hands with you, and obtain a letter of recommendation to the commanding officers, that they may receive and treat me kindly.'

"'I will give you a letter with pleasure, but you do not need one; your singing will make you all right.'

"On my rising to leave, he gave his hand, saying: 'God bless you; I am glad you do not want an office. Go to the army, and cheer the men around their camp-fires with your songs, remembering that a great man said, "Let me but make the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws."'"

The President then told him how to secure a pass into the lines of the army, and the man went forth to write and to sing his inspirations, like a balladist of old.

His songs were the delight of many camps of the Army of the Potomac in the first dark year of the war. They were sung in the camp, and they belonged to the inside army life, but were little known outside of the army. They are still fondly remembered by the veterans, and are sung at reunions and camp-fires.

We give one of these songs and its original music here. It has the spirit of the time and the events, and every note is a pulse-beat:

We are Marching on to Richmond.

WORDS AND MUSIC BY E. W. LOCKE.

Published by the permission of the Composer.

1. Our knapsacks sling and blithely sing, We're marching on to 2. Our foes are near, their drums we hear, They're camped a-bout in

Rich-mond; With weap-ons bright, and hearts so light, We're Rich-mond; With pick-ets out, to tell the route Our

march-ing on to Rich-mond; Each wea-ry mile with Ar-my takes to Rich-mond; We've craft-y foes to

song be-guile, We're marching on to Richmond; The roads are meet our blows, No doubt they'll fight for Richmond; The brave may

rough, but smooth e-nough To take us safe to Richmond. die, but nev-er fly, We'll cut our way to Richmond.

CHORUS.

Then tramp a-way while the bu-gles play, We're march-ing on to Rich-mond; Our flag shall gleam in the morn-ing beam, From man-y a spire in Rich-mond.

3.

"But yesterday, in murderous fray, While marching on to Richmond, We parted here from comrades dear, While marching on to Richmond; With manly sighs and tearful eyes, While marching on to Richmond, We laid the braves in peaceful graves, And started on to Richmond.

4.

"Our friends away are sad to-day, Because we march to Richmond; With loving fear they shrink to hear About our march to Richmond; The pen shall tell that they who fell While marching on to Richmond, Had hearts aglow and face to foe, And died in sight of Richmond.

5.

"Our thoughts shall roam to scenes of home, While marching on to Richmond; The vacant chair that's waiting there, While we march on to Richmond; 'Twill not be long till shout and song We'll raise aloud in Richmond, And war's rude blast will soon be past, And we'll go home from Richmond."

This song-writer had brought a song to the great Springfield assembly. He sang it when the people were in a receptive mood. It voiced their hearts, and its influence was electric. As he rose before the assembly on that August day under the prairie sun, and sang: "Hark! hark! a signal-gun is heard," a stillness came over the great sea of the people. The figures of the first verse filled the imagination, but the chorus was like a bugle-call:

"THE SHIP OF STATE.

"(Sung at the Springfield Convention.)

"Hark! hark! a signal-gun is heard, Just out beyond the fort; The good old Ship of State, my boys, Is coming into port. With shattered sails, and anchors gone, I fear the rogues will strand her; She carries now a sorry crew, And needs a new commander.

"Our Lincoln is the man! Our Lincoln is the man! With a sturdy mate From the Pine-Tree State, Our Lincoln is the man!

"Four years ago she put to sea, With prospects brightly beaming; Her hull was strong, her sails new-bent, And every pennant streaming; She loved the gale, she plowed the waves, Nor feared the deep's commotion; Majestic, nobly on she sailed, Proud mistress of the ocean.

"There's mutiny aboard the ship; There's feud no force can smother; Their blood is up to fever-heat; They're cutting down each other. Buchanan here, and Douglas there, Are belching forth their thunder, While cunning rogues are sly at work In pocketing the plunder.

"Our ship is badly out of trim; 'Tis time to calk and grave her; She's foul with stench of human gore; They've turned her to a slaver. She's cruised about from coast to coast, The flying bondman hunting, Until she's strained from stem to stern, And lost her sails and bunting.

"Old Abram is the man! Old Abram is the man! And he'll trim her sails, As he split the rails. Old Abram is the man!

"We'll give her what repairs she needs— A thorough overhauling; Her sordid crew shall be dismissed, To seek some honest calling. Brave Lincoln soon shall take the helm, On truth and right relying; In calm or storm, in peace or war, He'll keep her colors flying.

"Old Abram is the man! Old Abram is the man! With a sturdy mate From the Pine-Tree State, Old Abram is the man!"

These words seem commonplace to-day, but they were trumpet-notes then. "Our Lincoln is the man!" trembled on every tongue, and a tumultuous applause arose that shook the air. The enthusiasm grew; the minstrel had voiced the people, and they would not let him stop singing. They finally mounted him on their shoulders and carried him about in triumph, like a victor bard of old. Ever rang the chorus from the lips of the people, "Our Lincoln is the man!" "Old Abram is the man!"

Lincoln heard the song. He loved songs. One of his favorite songs was "Twenty Years ago." But this was the first time, probably, that he had heard himself sung. He was living at that time in the plain house in Springfield that has been made familiar by pictures. The song delighted him, but he, of all the thousands, was forbidden by his position to express his pleasure in the song. He would have liked to join with the multitudes in singing "Our Lincoln is the man!" had not the situation sealed his lips. But after the scene was over, and the great mass of people began to melt away, he sought the minstrel, and said:

"Come to my room, and sing to me the song privately. I want to hear you sing it."

So he listened to it in private, while it was being borne over the prairies on tens of thousands of lips. Did he then dream that the nations would one day sing the song of his achievements, that his death would be tolled by the bells of all lands, and his dirge fill the churches of Christendom with tears? It may have been that his destiny in dim outline rose before him, for the events of his life were hurrying.

Aunt Indiana was there, and she found the Tunker.

"The land o' sakes and daisies!" she said. "That we should both be here! Well, elder, I give it up! I was agin Lincoln until I heard all the people a-singin' that song; then it came over me that I was doin' just what I hadn't ought to, and I began to sing 'Old Lincoln is the man!' just as though it had been a Methody hymn written by Wesley himself."

"I am glad that you have changed your mind, and that I have lived to see my prophecy, that Lincoln would become the heart of the people, fulfilled."

"Elder, I tell you what let's we do."

"What, my good woman?"

"Let's we each get a rail, and go down before Abe's winder, and I'll sing as loud as anybody:

"'Old Abram is the man! Old Abram is the man! And he'll trim her sails As he split the rails. Old Abram is the man!'

I'll do it, if you will. I've been all wrong from the first. Why, even the Grigsbys are goin' to vote for him, and I'm goin' to do the right thing myself. Abe always had a human heart, and it is that which is the most human that leads off in this world."

Aunt Indiana found a rail. The streets of Springfield were full of rails that the people had brought in honor of Lincoln's hard work on his father's barn in early Illinois. She also found a flag. Flags were as many as rails on this remarkable occasion. She set the flag into the top of the rail, and started for the street that led past Lincoln's door.

"Come on, elder; we'll be a procession all by ourselves."

The two arrived at the house where Lincoln lived, the Tunker in his buttonless gown, and Aunt Indiana with her corn-bonnet, printed shawl, rail, and flag. The procession of two came to a halt before the open window, and presently, framed in the open window, like a picture, the face of Abraham Lincoln appeared. That face lighted up as it fell upon Aunt Indiana.

She made a low courtesy, and lifted the rail and the flag, and broke forth in a tone that would have led a camp-meeting:

"'Our Abram is the man! Our Abram is the man! With a sturdy mate From the Pine-Tree State, Our Abram is the man!'

"Elder, you sing, and we'll go over it again."

Aunt Indiana waved the flag and sang the refrain again, and said:

"Abe Lincoln, I'm goin' to vote for ye, though I never thought I should. But you shall have my vote with all the rest.—Lawdy sakes and daisies, elder—I forgot; I can't vote, can I? I'm just a woman. I've got all mixed up and carried away, but

"'Our Abram is the man!'"



Six years have passed. The gardens of Washington are bursting into bloom. The sky is purple under a clear sun. It is Wednesday morning, the 19th of April, 1865.

All the bells are tolling, and the whole city is robed in black. At eleven o'clock some sixty clergymen enter the White House, followed by the governors of the States. At noon comes the long procession of Government officers, followed by the diplomatic corps.

In the sable rooms rises a dark catafalque, and in it lies a waxen face.

Toll!—the bells of Washington, Georgetown, and Alexandria! Minute-guns boom. Around that dead face the representatives of the nation, and of all nations, pass, and tears fall like rain.

A funeral car of flowers moves through the streets. Abraham Lincoln has done his work. He is on his journey back to the scenes of his childhood! The boy who defended the turtles, the man who stretched out his arm over the defenseless Indian in the Black Hawk War, and who freed the slave; the man of whom no one ever asked pity in vain—he is going back to the prairies, to sleep his eternal sleep among the violets.

Toll! The bells of all the cities and towns of the loyal nation are tolling. In every principal church in all the land people have met to weep and to pray. Half-mast flags everywhere meet the breeze.

They laid the body beneath the rotunda of the Capitol, amid the April flowers and broken magnolias.

Then homeward—through Baltimore, robed in black; through Philadelphia, through New York, Cleveland, Indianapolis, and Chicago. The car rolls on, over flowers and under black flags, amid the tolling of the bells of cities and the bells of the simple country church-towers. All labor ceases. The whole people stop to wonder and to weep.

The dirges cease. The muffled drums are still. The broken earth of the prairies is wrapped around the dead commoner, the fallen apostle of humanity, the universal brother of all who toil and struggle.

The courts of Europe join in the lamentation. Never yet was a man wept like this man.

His monument ennobles the world. He stands in eternal bronze in a hundred cities. And why? Because he had a heart to feel; because to him all men had been brothers of equal blood and birthright; and because he had had faith that "RIGHT MAKES MIGHT."



CHAPTER XXV.

AT THE LAST.

From the magnolias to the Northern orchards, from the apple-blooms to the prairie violets! The casket was laid in the tomb. Twilight came; the multitudes had gone. It was ended now, and night was falling.

Two forms stood beside the closed door of the tomb; one was an old, gray-haired woman, the other was a patriarchal-looking man.

The woman's gray hairs blew about her white face like silver threads, and she pushed it back with her withered hand.

"Sister Olive," said the old man, "he loved others better than himself; and it is not this tomb, but the great heart of the world, that has taken him in. I felt that he was called. I felt it years ago."

"Heaven forgive a poor old woman, elder! I misjudged that man. See here."

She held up a bunch of half-withered prairie violets that she had carried about with her all the day, and then went and laid them on the tomb.

"For Lincoln's sake! for Lincoln's sake!" she said, crying like a child.

The two went away in the shadows, talking of all the past, and each has long slept under the violets of the prairies.

THE END.



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS.

BOOKS BY WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

UNIFORM EDITION. EACH, 12MO, CLOTH, $1.50.

THE RED PATRIOT. A Story of the American Revolution. Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst.

In this vivid account of a boy's part in great historical events there is a leading actor, "the last of the Susquehannocks," whose share in the hero's adventures has given the title to the book.

THE WINDFALL; or, After the Flood. Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst.

"Full of adventure and incident so well conceived and described as to keep the reader in a continued state of absorbed attention. It is the kind of book one wants to sit up nights to finish."—Springfield Union.

CHRIS, THE MODEL-MAKER. A Story of New York. With 6 full-page Illustrations by B. West Clinedinst.

"The girls as well as the boys will be certain to relish every line of it. It is full of lively and likely adventure, is wholesome in tone, and capitally illustrated."—Philadelphia Press.

ON THE OLD FRONTIER. With 10 full-page Illustrations.

"A capital story of life in the middle of the last century.... The characters introduced really live and talk, and the story recommends itself not only to boys and girls, but to their parents."—New York Times.

THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK. With 11 full-page Illustrations and colored Frontispiece.

"Young people who are interested in the ever-thrilling story of the great rebellion will find in this romance a wonderfully graphic picture of New York in war time."—Boston Traveler.

LITTLE SMOKE. A Story of the Sioux Indians. With 12 full-page Illustrations by F. S. Dellenbaugh, portraits of Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, and other chiefs, and 72 head and tail pieces representing the various implements and surroundings of Indian life.

"It is not only a story of adventure, but the volume abounds in information concerning this most powerful of remaining Indian tribes. The work of the author has been well supplemented by the artist."—Boston Traveler. CROWDED OUT O' CROFIELD. The story of a country boy who fought his way to success in the great metropolis. With 23 Illustrations by C. T. Hill.

"This excellent story teaches boys to be men, not prigs or Indian hunters. If our boys would read more such books, and less of the blood-and-thunder order, it would be rare good fortune."—Detroit Free Press.

GOOD BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS.

THE EXPLOITS OF MYLES STANDISH. By HENRY JOHNSON (Muirhead Robertson), author of "From Scrooby to Plymouth Rock," etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

This story of the exploits of Myles Standish throws a clearer light upon a heroic figure in our earliest history, and it has an epic quality which will appeal to old and young. While the facts of history are presented, the author has adroitly reconstructed the little-known earlier years of Standish's life, basing his imaginative work upon the probabilities of history. The result is for the most part history told in the form of a thrilling and absorbing story, a tale which includes war and adventures, and also illustrates the sterling and heroic qualities which contributed so powerfully to the preservation of the Plymouth colony. The book is one to be read by every young American.

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