"'Mary,' said he, 'I will be rich. I've set my mind on that; and then your father won't be ashamed to own me as a son-in-law, and I shall come and claim you.'

"It seemed noble and heroic for him to speak thus; but my heart smote me with foreboding, and I answered,—

"'But what if you do not succeed?'

"'I will succeed;' he replied, impetuously. 'What a man wills he can do.'

"Ah, how foolish and sinful it is to worship money and show, as my parents did; how much suffering it has caused me! and how equally unwise and presumptuous it was for a young man, stung by the pride of others, to make that the rule of his life, and go forth in his own strength to build up a fortune, so that he might demand me of my parents as an equal, and thus gratify his own pride! I see it now, but not clearly then.

"Joseph, for a time, was prosperous. Everything he turned his hand to was remunerative; and when we met, his manner was confident and hopeful.

"'Let the old gentleman look down upon me now if he chooses,' he would say; 'he won't always do it.'

"He had been a year in business when a partnership was proposed to him by a man of education and gentlemanly appearance. Joseph spoke to me about it, and I said,—

"'You are doing well enough now. Why not be contented to go alone? I have often heard that partnerships are poor ships to sail in.'

"'Well,' said he, 'there's something in his appearance that I do not quite like, and I think I shall not take him in.'

"But as the man came with the highest testimonials as to his character, ability, and influence, with the hope of greatly enlarging his business, a copartnership was entered into. Mr. Jacques, the partner, was Joseph's senior in age—a stout, robust man, with a high forehead, light hair, always carried a cane, was jovial, and good-natured in the extreme, fond of telling a good story, but sharp in trade. I met him on one occasion, and there was something in the turn of his eye—a restless, jerking, selfish expression—that made me shrink from him. Joseph was proud of his acquisition, and, remembering my caution, asked me what I thought of him. I well remember the reply that leaped to my lips.

"'Didn't you say that he was religious?'

"'He professes to be,' said he.

"'I fear that it is only a cloak to his real character. If he is a Christian, I do not know what grace has done for him; but if I do not misread his face, he is constitutionally dishonest.'

"But every thing went on smoothly, and Joseph would say to me when we met,—

"'My partner loves scandal a little too well—is apt to talk against others; but one thing I'm sure of—he's honest.'

"One morning, some months after this conversation, I chanced to meet Joseph as he was going to the office; he looked pale and careworn.

"'O,' said he, 'I have had the most singular exercise of mind. Some folks are troubled with sleeplessness; but I never was until last night. I went to bed feeling as well as usual, but could not sleep. I was not unusually tired, had taken a light supper, and saw no reason why I should be so wakeful. I turned and tossed in bed, and shut my eyes; but all in vain. I even laid my finger on my wrist, that the counting of my pulse might, by the monotony, induce slumber; when, suddenly, before my mind's eye stood my partner; it seemed as real as life; and with the appearance came little remarks of his, little acts and words, which, as they ranged themselves along like the links in a chain, revealed him to me, against my will, as a deceiver and a dishonest man.'

"He was much excited, and hurried to town. Mr. Jacques, as I afterwards learned, was there before him, and met him with his bland smile and well-turned compliments; and, strange as it may seem, scarcely an hour had passed before he had charmed away every shadow of suspicion. Matters now went on as before for a few weeks, when Joseph had another sleepless night, and a more convincing unfolding of his partner's real character; and the next night, after the office had been closed, he spent in examining the books of the concern, and detected a number of artfully-contrived fraudulent entries in the handwriting of his partner, for, according to agreement, the latter kept the accounts. Further revelations showed that he had been gradually abstracting the stock. As soon as Mr. Jacques saw that he was being found out, his gentleness and politeness were all gone, and he raged like a beast of prey. Joseph attached his furniture at his dwelling, but found it had all been made over to his son—a young lawyer in the city; meanwhile the dishonest man had fled with his ill-gotten gains, leaving the business in a frightfully complicated state. The result was, as is often the case when a man begins to go down in his affairs, although he may be ever so deserving and innocent, there are enough to give him a push. It was so with him. In vain did Joseph, by his books, show that he was doing well up to the cruel embezzlements, and that if he was dealt leniently with, he could recover his standing, and go on as prosperously as before; his creditors, one after another, ferociously pounced upon him; he got through one trouble only to meet another, until utter failure came. The effect on Joseph was lamentable in the extreme. He sat by his fire at home, day after day, for weeks, with his head buried in his hands, in utter despair. Had some kind friend stepped forward and started him anew, what a deed of mercy it would have been! But the men whom he accommodated with money, when prosperous, turned their backs upon him now.

"Recovering somewhat from the shock, he sought again and again for employment; but his short-sighted and relentless creditors would factorize his earnings, and thus oblige him to leave."

"Factorize!" asked Tom, interrupting her; "what is that?"

"Why," said the mother, "if a man owes another, the creditor attaches his wages, and when the man presents his bill to his employer, he finds that he cannot pay him anything. In vain he went to distant places to earn a subsistence. Shrewd lawyers were put upon his track; he was ferretted out, until, discouraged, he came to me one day, and said,—

"'Mary, the hounds are after me from morning till night. They dog my steps wherever I go, and give me no chance to retrieve my fortunes. I am going to the west; and it isn't right to hold you to your engagement any longer, for I can never, on my part, fulfil it. The odds are against me here, and, what is worse, I've lost my courage and hope; I have come to bid you good by.'

"'If you do not care for me any longer,' I said, 'say so. You've struggled hard, and have merited a better result; it isn't your fault that you have failed. God forbid that I should break my promise. If you must go west, you are not going alone. I shall go with you, and shall this very night tell my parents all about my engagement, and get their consent to our marriage.'

"He shook his head. But feeling that it had been cowardly in me not to have mentioned the subject before, whatever the result might have been, in a few words I frankly, and with a composure that surprised myself, told them the whole story. My father was a quick-tempered, imperious man, and my mother lived only for this world: the result you can easily imagine. But I felt that my duty was plain; and we were quietly married. Having a little money of my own, joining it with what your father had by him, we started towards the setting sun. But what was that?" said Mrs. Jones, stopping in her recital, as a strange sound fell upon her ear.

It was a long, fiendish yell, swelling upon the still night air over the unbroken solitudes of the prairie; it was most appalling. Tom and his mother hastened to the window; they saw a noble buck, his antlers held aloft, flying with his utmost speed, pursued by two dark-looking objects, that gained rapidly on him.

"It's the gray wolf," said Tom, "chasing a deer. How I wish I had a rifle! I could bring one of them down easy as not,"—as they dashed by, with short, quick yells, following their prey into the woods that skirted the river.

"I hope the poor creature will escape," said Mrs. Jones, with a sigh; and she resumed her narrative. "I was not long in seeing, on our journey out, that a dreadful change had been wrought in your father by his business troubles. It had given him an unconquerable disgust of society, which he has not yet outgrown, making him uneasy and restless wherever he has been; and this, Tom, is the secret of his wandering life; and this is why I never feel that I can complain at any of the changes in our hard, unsettled career as a family."

Tom, who had listened absorbed to this before unread chapter in the family history, was deeply moved, and, while the tears filled his eyes, asked, in tremulous tones,—

"Do you think father'll ever get over it, mother?"

"Tom," replied she, "your father has a true heart and a good mind, and I believe that, in some way, good will yet come out of this long-continued trial. He's taken a great liking to the missionary; and Mr. Payson seems to understand him better than most, and I am praying that the acquaintance may lead to something brighter for him; and, Tom," she added, "I have told you this that you may see a new reason for not being in haste to leave your father and mother. There is one passage in the Bible I often think of, which directs us to both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of God. Your father's mistake, when he went into business, was, that he was in too great haste to accomplish his own will. This is apt to be the error of the young. They are sanguine of success, and they rush into the battle of life without waiting to put on the armor of faith. What the young want in setting out, Tom, is a Guide and a Helper, who cannot err, and will not forsake them. An old man in our town used to say, 'Never try to kick open the door of Providence.' I want you, Tom, to wait patiently till Providence opens the door for you. Then you need not be afraid to go forward."



CHAPTER VII.

A SABBATH ON THE PRAIRIE.

Extracts from the Missionary's Diary.

Yesterday I preached my first sermon in a log cabin. When I awoke in the early morning, and looked out of the little window at the head of my bed in the rough, low-roofed attic, a new world seemed to break on my sight. Instead of the narrow, noisy streets and tenanted blocks of the populous eastern city, my eyes rested on one vast green field stretching to the arching horizon, over which brooded a profound silence, intensified by the sacred hush of the Sabbath.

My host offered his own cabin for the forenoon service. His son—a sturdy young man of eighteen, inured to pioneer life—had ridden far and wide to give notice of the meeting, and he was confident of a good attendance. I anticipated the labors of the day with some misgivings, for I had become slavishly accustomed to the use of written sermons; but here, before a log-cabin audience, to speak from manuscript was not to be thought of. For once, at least, I must trust to the grace of Christ, and speak as the Spirit gave utterance. My study was a corner of the loft, my library a pocket Bible.

"Where do all these people come from?" I ejaculated in pleased surprise, as, for a full hour before the time appointed, men, women, and children, afoot, in wagons and ox-teams, continued to arrive. And through the cracks in the loosely-laid, unnailed floor, I could see members of the family engaged in contriving sitting accommodations for the growing congregation. Unplaned oaken boards, placed across trunks, boxes, and huge blocks, soon filled the room, every seat being occupied, while groups of men stood about the door outside, or sat upon the embankment. I would have a "full house" certainly. And what effort had been made by these frontier folk to attend I could easily imagine. Some had walked many miles for the purpose; most had come quite a distance. And the earnest, thoughtful faces that met my gaze, as I descended the ladder, and read the opening hymn,—how reverently their heads were bowed for prayer, and with what hushed interest they listened to the discourse,—I can not soon forget. One woman, who sat surrounded by her family, wept from the announcement of the text till the close of the sermon—wept for joy that, once more, after long deprivation of sanctuary privileges, she could hear the word of God. It was a scene for a painter—that log cabin crowded with representatives of every state in the Union, in every variety of garb, and of all ages, from the gray-haired backwoodsman to the babe in its mother's arms. No costly organ was here, with its gentle, quiet breathings, or grand and massive harmonies; no trained choir; no consecrated temple, with its Sabbath bell, and spire pointing heavenward; no carpeted aisles and "dim religious light," and sculptured, cushioned pulpit. But I could not doubt the presence of the Spirit. And when, at the close, "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow," was sung to Old Hundred,—sung as if with one voice and soul, the clear, sweet tones of childhood blending with the deeper sounds of manhood and womanhood,—the rough, rude building seemed as the gate of heaven.

My appointment for the afternoon was at a small settlement eleven miles away.

A charming drive through the "oak openings" and over the rolling prairie brought us to the cabin which was to serve as meeting-house. It was a long, low, one-roomed building, the logs of which it was constructed still rejoicing in their primitive covering of bark, the openings between them being closed with clay thrown in by hand. Mr. G., the owner,—a short, gray-haired, brisk little man with a wooden leg, gave me a cordial welcome, and, to show how willing he was to have the meeting in his cabin, pointed to his shoemaker's bench, and various articles of furniture, including a bedstead, trundle-bed, and bedding, which had been removed from the room, and piled in admirable disorder outside.

"You have been to a great deal of trouble," I remarked.

"None too much," he cheerily replied. "I am an old soldier, you see, and that's why I have to hobble about on this," pointing to the ancient artificial limb. "I was in the war of 1812, belonged to the cavalry, and at the battle of—"

"Husband," gently interposed his wife,—an intellectual-looking woman, with a face expressive of goodness,—"the minister will not care to hear of war to-day;" adding, with a blush, "You must excuse us, sir; but it is so long since we have seen one of your profession, or attended religious services, that the days seem too much alike; there is little here to remind us that the Sabbath should be kept holy. O, it is so dreadful—so like heathenism—to live without the ordinances of the gospel! No Sunday school for our children and youth, no servant of God to counsel the dying, comfort the bereaved, and point the heavy-laden to Christ!"

"Such a state of things must, indeed, be a great trial to those who love the Saviour," I observed.

"Yes; and what adds to the trial," she continued, "is, that members of churches, after they have been here awhile, fall into great laxity in respect to the Lord's day. Those who were exemplary east, are here seen starting upon or returning from a business journey on Sunday. O, we need some one to gather these straying sheep, and unite them by the public means of grace: many of them, I doubt not, are secretly longing for this. For more than a year I have been praying that God would send a servant of his this way."

"And sometimes, I dare say, you have felt almost discouraged," I suggested.

"Yes," she replied, weeping; "but last week something came to strengthen my faith, and later, intelligence that you were to visit us. Months ago I wrote east for a donation of good reading to scatter among the settlers, but received no response till, last Tuesday, a package of books, tracts, and religious papers arrived. In one of the papers was an article entitled 'The Pulpit and the Beech Tree.'"

"Here it is," said the husband, passing her the sheet; "better read it to the parson; there'll be plenty of time afore the meeting;" and he glanced at a venerable clock screwed to a log over the wide-mouthed clay-stick-and-stone fireplace.

She read as follows: "Nearly a score of years ago, a pioneer sought a home in one of the Western States. He selected a 'quarter section' in a dense wilderness, and soon entered upon the arduous work of clearing a farm. He was a man of athletic constitution, and well adapted to cope with the trials on the frontier. He was in the prime of life; and in those days a man was famous according as he had 'lifted axes upon the thick trees.' This man was ranked among the leading characters in that region. He could bear up with fortitude under all trials and privations, except those of a religious kind.

"Before his removal to the west, he had enjoyed the privileges of a large and well-regulated church, in which he had for years been a prominent member. To be thus suddenly deprived of those blessed means of grace caused him many painful feelings, and at times almost incapacitated him for ordinary duties. This subject pressed so heavily on his mind, that he often sought relief in laying his wants before God in prayer. One day he enjoyed near access to the throne while on his knees in a secluded part of the forest. He prayed earnestly that God would make that wilderness and solitary place glad with the sound of the gospel. He asked for the church privileges to which he had been accustomed, and he felt assured that God could grant them. So much was he engaged in pleading for this blessing, that he forgot his work. His family looked for his return to dinner, but he came not. They were alarmed, and, making search, found him on his knees. To this man of God there was something peculiarly pleasant in the memory of that approach to the mercy-seat. He loved the spot on which he had knelt, and determined to mark it. It was by the side of a beech tree. He 'blazed' it, so that in after years it might remind him of the incident that I have related.

"That prayer was speedily answered. God put it into the hearts of the people of that region to build a sanctuary in the desert. They have now the stated means of grace. That pioneer is one of the officers of the church. The membership is near eighty. The cause of religion seems to be flourishing among them. Not long since it was my privilege to preach in their house of worship; it was filled with an intelligent congregation. At the close of the services, the old man gave me a history of his praying under the beech tree, and, with tears in his eyes, closed by saying, 'That tree stood only about five feet from the very spot where you stood while preaching for us to-night.'"

"There," said she, at the conclusion of the narrative, "I felt that this was a word in season to me. I fell upon my knees, and, with increased earnestness, pleaded for the privileges of the gospel, and rose feeling, as did the pioneer, that God would grant the request. But how did my heart leap with glad surprise the next day,—that is, last Wednesday,—when a neighbor called to consult me about a place for you to preach in!"

But it was time for service. There was the same thronged attendance and absorbed attention as in the morning. How delightful to proclaim the tidings of great joy to those who are hungering for the word of life! How different from ministering to fashionable worldly hearers, who gather in the house of God for intellectual entertainment, or from motives of custom, respectability, or ostentation, and who are hardened by the very abundance of spiritual instruction!

At the close of the services, with the social freedom of western intercourse, I was introduced to most present, and they all seemed anxious that I should make a home in their neighborhood. How different it would be to settle with this new people, on the precarious subsistence which I might get for my family here, preaching, and perhaps keeping house, in a log cabin, from the situation I must fill, should I accept the call extended by the large and wealthy church in N. A frontier parish on a prairie, on the outskirts of civilization, and a city parish,—what a contrast! But my heart is strongly drawn towards this people. Should I remain with them, what would my money-loving, place-seeking, eastern friends say?

* * * * *

I have passed another delightful Sabbath, notwithstanding certain trifling violations of the proprieties of worship as observed in eastern assemblies.

It struck me quite ludicrously, at first, to see mother's listening to the preaching while nursing or dandling their infants. Yesterday a fat, burly baby, who, by some singular good fortune, had an apple,—for we never see that fruit here,—let it drop from his fat fist, and it rolled nearly to my feet; and the mother, not in the least disconcerted, gravely came and picked it up, and returned it to her boy. Nobody, however, was disturbed by the incident; all appeared to take it as a matter of course. And I confess I like this absence of fastidious conventionalities. Why should the mother be kept from the house of God because she may not bring her child with her? "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not," said the great Preacher when the disciples would drive out of his congregation the mothers and their infants. Is the servant more particular than his Lord?

Then, too, the uncouth garments of many of my log-cabin hearers,—how unlike the elegant and costly apparel worn in our eastern sanctuaries! But I like the western way best as to dress. I enjoy seeing the poor, in his plain attire, sitting unabashed by the side of the man in "goodly apparel." And when I consider what thousands of starving souls are kept out of Christian churches because they cannot dress in broadcloth and silk, and how much money is wasted and vanity indulged by the bedizened crowds that throng our sanctuaries, I am thankful that the reign of fashion is unknown on the frontier.

But these hardy pioneers are bold and independent thinkers. The preacher must show himself "a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth," if he would keep his hold on their respect. It will not do to be careless even in teaching the Sabbath school. I was suddenly reminded of this yesterday. Speaking on the subject of benevolence, I had remarked that the poorest of us, if we were careful not to waste, might have something that we could spare as well as not to those needier than ourselves. And I inquired if any scholar could tell me what scripture enforced this lesson. As no one responded, I read the account of the multiplying of the loaves and fishes when Christ fed the fainting multitudes; and coming to the words, "Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost," I asked, "Do not these words show that we ought to save the pieces, that we may give them to the hungry?"

"No, sir," promptly answered a lad of about sixteen.

Thinking he had misunderstood the question, I repeated it, saying, "I asked, Thomas,"—for that was the boy's name,—"if this language does not teach that we should save what we are apt to throw away, that we may have something to give the poor."

"I do not think it does," he replied.

"Why not?" I inquired.

"Jesus told the disciples to share the nice new loaves with the people, and to keep the bits and ends for themselves."

He was right. I had unconsciously been making that great miracle of mercy teach stinginess! How often I had heard it explained to polished audiences in New England in the same way, and not a criticism offered. Yet the one who pointed out this strangely-common error was a child belonging to one of the most thriftless of these frontier families. His name is Jones; and he is, I think, a lad of promise, in whom I am becoming much interested, as also in his father, a restless, singular being, but who is more of a man, in my judgment, than he seems.

* * * * *

I am getting to feel more and more deeply that duty calls me to labor here. If it were not for my dear wife and children, I should decide at once to remain. But how could she get along in this out-of-the-world place? Can she relinquish the comforts of her eastern home, and share with me, for the Master's sake, the privations of the wilderness? The settlers are kind, and say we shall not suffer. A subscription paper has been started, and has already a goodly array of names; and brother Palmer—an excellent man of some means—says he will furnish me money with which to build a neat cottage.



CHAPTER VIII.

TOM'S VICTORY.

Tom retired to bed the night after his mother had confided to him the history of his father's business trials, feeling that she had conferred an honor upon him in thus sharing with him her life-secret, and that he understood his parents as he never did before. He was conscious, also, that she had put him under new obligation to be always frank with her, as she had been with him; that she had, in fact, made the obligation very sacred, for he realized that it was an act of condescension in her thus to make him the repository of her secrets, while to share his with her was but the duty of a child, and for his own advantage. And he thought, "How can I now desert the family for any imaginary good, and leave her to reproach me by her patient cross-bearing for dear father and the children's sake?"

It cost him a bitter struggle to act in accordance with this view. In the darkness of the night he wrestled long and hard to put down the wish to free himself from the burden that was now laid upon his conscience. He, the squatter's son, in his wretched life, had built up a golden future for himself, as the ambitious young, of every condition, are sure to do when once the heart is roused to wish, and the mind to plan, for great things. And now, to give it all up, and come down to the cheerless drudgery of home-service in such a home,—it could not be expected that he could do this, only after a severe conflict with his own nature, if at all. It is true his mother had exhorted him to wait for Providence to open the door before him. But he could not help recalling, with an aching heart, through how many long, weary years she had waited; and what door of relief had been opened for her? And was she not a thousand fold more deserving of such an interposition than he? He reflected on this point till his brain was in a whirl; the more he pondered the matter, the darker it seemed.

"I am called," he reasoned, "to keep by the family if I never see brighter days—that's the meaning of her words, and the demands of my lot. Am I ready to do this—to be true to duty, if it involves, as it has to her, poverty, seclusion from privileges, toil, suffering, obscurity?"

He knew that he ought thus to decide, and to decide cheerfully. But he could not. He tried again and again to reach the decision only to recoil from it. His will was powerless to calm the rebellion within. Ah, the pioneer's ragged son had been precipitated into a solemn moral crisis, which tested him, and showed him how weak he was! The tumult of feeling, and sharpness of the battle, had, at length, cast him into utter despair, when his mother's remark concerning his father's mistake in setting about getting rich by the strength of his own will, abruptly recurred to him.

"What did she mean by that?" he asked; and he sat bolt upright in bed to consider the point.

He could not, however, quite master the idea, and wished his mother was awake, that she might explain herself. Then his mind returned to the subject, and lo, the mist rolled away, and the truth shone out.

"I see it: father should have sought direction and strength of God. And that is just what I ought to do. He can give me grace to perform my duty,—yes, even to choose it."

And Tom, under the inspiration of the light that was breaking in upon his soul, resolved,—

"I'll ask God to enable me to do as mother has advised, and as I see to be right in the circumstances."

And covering his face with his hands, he lifted up his heart in prayer. As he prayed, a heavenly peace seemed to pervade his whole being. It stole upon him so gently and unexpectedly, that he felt like shouting praises to God; and at last, unable to keep his marvellous happiness to himself, he called, softly,—

"Mother, mother!"

"What do you wish, my son?" she asked, always ready to answer her children's calls.

"O, mother," he replied, "I have been struggling and praying, and I've got the victory."

Instantly she was kneeling on the rough floor by his side,—she understood him,—and tears of grateful joy ran down her face, and she said,—

"It is as I would have it, Tom. God has taken you up, and all will be well."

Next morning Tom arose with a peaceful, serious face. His mother did not allude to the happy change that had transpired within him during the night, but as she busied herself about breakfast, she would occasionally wipe away the tears, for her heart was full.

"Mother," said he, as they finished their frugal meal, "I've been thinking it would be a good plan to get up all the wood we can while the weather is pleasant. Winter'll be coming along by and by, and it'll be so nice to have a warm fire all the time then, and not have to wade through the snow after something to burn."

"Yes," she replied, "we have not had our Indian summer yet; and while that lasts we shall use but little fuel, and if you and the children are smart, you can get quite a pile ahead."

"Why is the beautiful spell we have in fall called Indian summer?" he asked.

"Because," replied his mother, "the Indians were in the habit of attacking the white settlements then; they don't go on their war expeditions after cold weather sets in. And," she added, sighing, "I shall be glad when snow comes, for I shall feel that we are safe until spring opens."

"The Allens are dreadful mad about their cattle," remarked Tom. "The old man tracked them to a ravine in the woods, and found that his oxen had been killed and dressed: the horns and hide lay on the ground, and the blood was scarcely cold, but not an Indian was to be seen. He couldn't even find a trail, and he's an old Indian-fighter, you know."

"Have any Indians been seen near here, since?"

"Yes; Mr. Payson, the missionary, saw one the other morning as he was going from Root River settlement to Slough Creek. He was passing the Norwegian's cabin, near the grove, when suddenly a Sioux galloped by on his pony, giving a loud whoop as he rode out of sight. And Mrs. Pingry had a great scare. Her husband was away after supplies, and she was alone about her work, when the door opened and an Indian stalked in and took a seat. Pretty soon a second came, and did the same, and then another; until a dozen sat round the room, silently smoking their pipes. She says she knew by their manner and the way they were painted that they intended mischief. She determined, however, not to appear frightened, and went on with her work. Soon one of them got up and broke open her husband's trunk, and then the rest fell to rummaging the house, helping themselves to whatever they wished; and she was expecting they would next assault her, when, to her relief, she heard the barking of a dog, and the rumbling of wheels, at which the savages took alarm, and in a moment were gone."

"And what," asked Mrs. Jones, "do the settlers think of this?"

"O, they only laugh about it. They don't expect any serious trouble. They say that the chiefs have had a grand talk with the government agent, and declare that they wish to be on good terms with us. But some of our people do all they can to provoke the Indians, and say they would like to have a brush with the red-skins!"

"But what's that?" he exclaimed, as loud shouts and the barking of dogs broke on their ears. Mrs. Jones and Tom hurried to the door, and saw some men and boys chasing a large animal across the prairie.

"A bear! a bear!" cried a neighbor, rushing breathlessly up to Tom, saying, "Is your father at home? Tell him to come on, and we'll pepper his carcass!" and without waiting for an answer, or explaining whose carcass he meant, he hastened after the others.

The creature that they were pursuing was so fat that he did not run very swiftly, and the dogs gained on him; aware of which, he was making desperate efforts to gain the shelter of a small grove not far off, while stringing along for quite a distance behind were his pursuers. Some were hatless, a few had guns, but most were armed with pitchforks or clubs; and one man, in his zeal, carried a piece of rusty stove-pipe, although what use he proposed to put it to in capturing Bruin, it was difficult to imagine, unless he intended, should Bear gain the grove, to smoke him out with it. The truth is, he was putting up a stove in his cabin when the cry of "Bear, bear," interrupted his labors, and he joined the chase, forgetting that he held anything in his hand. He was wiry, lank, and long-legged, with sandy hair that came down straight and thin upon his shoulders, and being without his coat, with pants that reached only half way between his knees and ankles, he cut a ludicrous figure as he straddled on, followed by a short, dumpy man, who, waddle as ambitiously as he might, swiftly fell behind, without, however, seeming in the least discouraged.

"There, they are surrounding the grove," said Tom, as the men and boys spread out from the centre till they had encompassed Bruin's leafy retreat.

Soon there was the report of guns, and not long after, the hunters returned, looking tired and disappointed.

"The bear must have got away," said Mrs. Jones.

But Charley came rushing towards her, and, throwing up his cap, cried,—

"O, isn't it fun! It wasn't a bear, mother; it was only Mr. Abbott's black hog that he lost last fall, and thought was dead. He had run wild, feeding on roots and acorns, and was awful fat. But they didn't know 'twas a hog till they shot him, the dogs kept up such a yelping, and the grass and bushes hid him so. They've gone after a wagon to take him home."

But Tom was at work making an opening in the fence nearest the woods; seeing which, Charley called out,—

"What you doing that for, Tom?"

"I've been thinking," answered Tom, pleasantly, "that we shall want some wood near the cabin next winter, instead of digging it out of the snow, and I'm fixing a place to drag it through."

"Yes, children," added the mother, "Tom and I have been talking it over. Suppose you take hold together and see how big a pile you can get up. It will be so nice to have plenty of wood to cook the corn-cakes with, and keep us comfortable when it's freezing weather!"

The project pleased the youngsters, even to Bub, and, headed by Tom, they began at once to put it into execution.

It is customary in new countries for the first comers to help themselves freely to the trees on government land, for logs with which to construct their cabins, and to rive into shingles and saw into boards; and many a sinewy oak had fallen before the frontiersman's axe in the woods near the Joneses, leaving the brawny limbs upon the ground. There were also many dead trees still standing, and from these sources dry, hard wood of the best quality could always be obtained.

Tom directed operations. The limbs and small dead trees were thrown or dragged in piles a certain distance towards the field; from there another took them to the opening in the fence, and from thence others of the youngsters pulled them up to the house. The girls and boys had a merry time of it, Sarah making the woods ring with her bird-like voice as she sang at her task, while many a joke was exchanged by the lively little company. But no one of them entered on the labor with more zeal, and a higher appreciation of his own services, than Bub.

"That child is always under foot," said Eliza, as she stumbled over him while tugging along a scrawny limb.

"You ought to go into the house," said Tom; "I'm afraid you'll get hurt."

"No, I won't," answered the child, "tause I dot to tarry in the wood;" and seizing a long branch under one dimpled arm, and a short, heavy one under the other, to make good his words, with the will of an older head, he started for the cabin.

Out from under his arm would be wrenched the long one by some bush beside the path, and Bub would pick it up and pull at it until it had cleared itself, when down would go the big piece from the other arm. Then he would bravely lift it again, his baby frock going up with it; and thus dropping his load and picking it up, with an occasional tumble, which he would not cry about, he reached the house, dragging his load in through the door, to the imminent danger of knocking over the old stove. He now rested from his labors to eat a cold potato and a piece of his mother's much-loved corn-cake, which, while disposing of, he dropped asleep, his rosy cheeks crammed to their utmost capacity.

"Pooh!" cried Charley, coming noisily in to see if dinner was most ready, "why didn't you keep to work, like the rest of us?"

Bub resumed eating, and replied, dignifiedly,—

"Tause I found out that it wasn't fun."

The unexpected effect of his answer on Charley, who received it with uproarious laughter, highly offended the child; and when Charley was out of sight, he said to his mother,—

"I isn't never going to work no more."

"Ah, why not?" she inquired.

"Tause I don't like to work."

"Then," said she, "you'll never make a man."

"Do men have to work?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied.

"Then I won't be a man," he answered, decidedly.

"Won't!" exclaimed his mother; "what, then, will you be?"

"I sail be a missernary, and walk wound, and wear dold dlasses!"



CHAPTER IX.

A SURPRISE.

"Can you tell me, sir, if I can find a conveyance for myself and children to L——, Minnesota?" inquired a lady of the attentive clerk at a hotel in the thriving young town of Dacotah, Iowa.

"There is no stage running to that point," he replied; "but we can send a team with you, if you wish to go to so much expense."

"I would like," answered the lady, smiling, "to get there with as little cost as I can. My husband is a missionary. I am on my way to join him."

"I will see what I can do for you," returned the clerk, bowing respectfully; and, stepping into the bar-room, he asked,—

"Is there any one here going to L—— to-day?"

"I shall go half way there," said a short, sharp-nosed, black-eyed man, who sat reading an eastern paper.

"Could you take a passenger or two?"

"I'm pretty well loaded," he answered; "but I always find room for one more, seeing it pays."

"It's a clergyman's wife and children," said the clerk, in a lower tone.

"O, well," replied the other, rising to his feet, "they shall go along, pay or no pay;" and he followed the clerk, who introduced the parties to each other with,—

"Mr. Sawyer—Mrs. Payson. He will take you as far as he goes."

"And how far is that?" she inquired.

"About twenty miles."

"But how shall I get over the remainder of the distance?"

"Don't be concerned about that," replied the man, heartily. "I guess there'll be a way to forward you all right."

And in a half hour his team was before the door, waiting to take her farther into the wilderness. A pair of stout iron-grays harnessed into a long, open wagon, affording space for a large variety of boxes and packages, and three rows of cushionless seats, constituted the conveyance. Its owner had been on a trading expedition, but, with an eye to "the main chance," was prepared to catch some of the travel going westward. The wagon was crowded with passengers; and, disposing of the three children,—a delicate, intelligent little boy and his two sisters—in the laps of those already seated, the teamster assisted the mother to a seat at his side. Their presence, it was evident, excited much interest; for the manner and dress of the little family betrayed New England birth and culture.

"Your husband," said the owner of the conveyance, as his horses trotted sturdily along, "rode up with me the other day. He had been down to the Mississippi waiting for you a whole week, and the landlord at McGreggor's Landing said he was the bluest man he ever saw, because you did not arrive."

"I am sorry that he was anxious on my account," replied the wife, with a merry laugh. "He didn't wish me to venture on the journey alone with the children, and wrote that he would return for me if I could not find suitable company; but, not wishing to take him from his labors, I packed up, and took our darlings along."

"I hope you didn't meet with any accident on the way," observed a man on the back seat. "You was pretty resolute."

"No; but I came near losing one of my little girls."

"How did it happen?" asked a motherly-looking woman.

"It was in the depot at Springfield. The children were thirsty, and, charging them not to stir until I came back, I crossed the room for water. There was a great crowd rushing here and there, trains were coming and going, all was bustle and confusion, and I hurried, not having been away but a moment; but little Fannie, my youngest girl, was missing. Helen, the eldest, had been so taken up with the sights and sounds about her, that she did not know that her sister was gone. I was almost frantic with fear, she had so suddenly and completely disappeared. So, throwing my bonnet back upon my shoulders to attract attention, I cried at the top of my lungs,—

"My child! my child! I've lost my child!"

"Child lost! child lost!" shouted a number of voices, repeating the description I gave of her. Nobody seemed to have seen her; and a terrible dread that I might not find her wrung my heart, when, to my joy, above the din, I heard some one exclaim,—

"She's found! she's found! Where's the mother?" and a gentleman, holding her aloft, brought her to me. He was deeply agitated, and said,—

"Your little girl, madam, came very near being killed. I found her under the car between two of the wheels, playing with them, saying, 'Car may hurt a me; car may hurt a me.' The last bell had rung, and I had barely time to drag her off the track when the train started."

"It must have been a great care for you," remarked a passenger, "to bring your children on so long a journey."

"It was, indeed," she replied. "Generally the worst part of it was in getting them into the trains: the children are so small, and the rush of passengers so great, that they were in danger of being trampled on, or prevented from getting aboard in season."

"Everybody looks out for Number One at such times," said a man. "I often think that we see more of the selfishness of human nature while travelling than under any other circumstances. I suppose you were left to get along as best you could with your little ones."

"Usually," she replied. "Sometimes, however, a stranger, bound the same way, would give us a helping hand; but often he would blunder so as to make matters worse. Once I was both amused and frightened. I was struggling to place my children on a train just starting, and, making little headway. I called out, 'Will some one help my children into the cars?' when one of the largest, fattest men I ever saw, who was panting and puffing from his unusual efforts at hurrying, caught up my little boy, and, trotting on like an elephant, he struck his foot against a stone, and came down sprawling into the sand, uttering a great, wild cry, and giving my little boy a throw at the same time. I felt sorry for the man, but thought I should die laughing at the queer figure he cut. And, ungrateful as it seemed, I was obliged, in going for my boy, to pass around our huge friend, and ride off, leaving him to pick himself up at his leisure."

There was much merriment at this recital, which was increased by a portly Englishman behind her saying, in a jolly way,—

"Hi feel as if hi could happreciate that story, mem!"

"But how do you think you'll like living west?" asked the motherly woman. "It seems to me that the likes of you won't know how to put up with our rough ways."

"O," replied the clergyman's wife, with an enthusiasm which showed what manner of spirit she was of, "I did not come out here for enjoyment, but to cheer and help my husband in laboring for Christ."

"Well," answered the other, wiping a tear from her eye, "the land knows we need such folks among us; and if we don't have things as nice as you do your way, I hope you'll find us westerners ready to do what we can for the good cause. Most of us have seen better times, and have known what it was to go to meeting every Sunday, and do our mite towards supporting preaching, and we are willing to do it again."

"See, mother," exclaimed little Helen,—a bright, wide-awake miss of six years,—"what a large garden!"

The team had passed the irregular ridges of the bluffs extending inland from the Mississippi, and had attained the summit of a gentle swell of land commanding an extensive prairie view, and the whole landscape was bedecked with flowers of every hue and shape. The child's wondering eyes danced with delight, and she said,—

"Mother, isn't the man who owns this great garden very rich?"

"This don't belong to any one man, my dear," replied her mother, smiling; "it is one of God's gardens. He planted all these flowers, and made them grow without anybody's help. All these are wild flowers."

"O," exclaimed the child, "how good he is!—isn't he, mother? Has God such a garden where our new home is?"

"I expect he has," she answered; "for out here, my child, it's almost all garden. You might ride thousands of miles, and not see a stone, or any sand—nothing but the green grass and the sweet blooming flowers."

"O," cried Blue-eye, clapping her hands, "I'm so glad we've come west!—aren't you, mother?"

The passengers were delighted with the prattle of the dear girl, and the matronly lady who had her in charge could not forbear giving her a kiss, and said,—

"I hope you will meet with nothing more unpleasant than prairie flowers."

But just then the child's bright eyes caught sight of a settler pursuing his lonely way with his gun on his shoulder, his tall figure standing in bold relief against the sky, although he was several miles in the distance, and she asked,—

"Mamma, is that a wild man?" And, later, seeing a cow grazing, she inquired, "Is that a wild cow?"

The next night, about sundown, Mr. Sawyer deposited the missionary's family at Mr. Lincoln's snug western cottage.

"Well," said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing, as she took her guest's things, "you've stolen a march on your husband this time."

"Isn't he here?" asked Mrs. Payson, with a disappointed air.

"No," she replied. "He spent a week at the Mississippi, waiting for you. And, fearing you might get carried by, or injured in leaving the steamer,—for you know little ceremony is used towards passengers or their goods,—he visited each boat as it arrived, and had the porter at the hotel call him up at every boat through the night, inquiring of the passengers if they had seen a lady of your description with three young children; and hearing, since he returned, that one resembling you had gone to the Landing higher up on the river, he went there yesterday, hoping to meet you, and bring you back with him. He'll probably get here late this evening; and won't we give him a surprise?"

It was about nine o'clock when the missionary returned, alone, anxious, and dejected.

"You don't look as if you found your lost wife and babies," said his host, sympathizingly.

"No, and I don't know what to make of it. I inquired thoroughly. I looked the papers over also, but did not find that there had been any railroad accident of late. I am afraid she has been taken sick on the way. It was barbarous in me to listen a moment to the idea of her coming all the way alone, with three children, from Massachusetts to Minnesota. I ought to have insisted on her remaining at home until I could have gone for her."

"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Lincoln, "she thought it wasn't prudent to venture on such a journey, and wrote you so, but the letter has miscarried."

"I know her too well to think so," responded the minister. "She has started on her way here. She had decided to do so as a matter of duty; and, having made her mind up on that point, she would come right on if she met with a railroad accident every other train—if she is a delicate little body."

"Well, you look tired enough to drop," said Mrs. Lincoln, abruptly, turning her head to conceal a smile. "I think you had better retire early."

The clergyman was quite taken aback at this piece of advice; but Mr. Lincoln relieved his astonishment by saying,—

"My wife, hoping that you might be cheered by the arrival of your family, has been fixing up your room a bit, and I suppose she won't rest to-night unless she sees how you like the improvements."

And Mrs. Lincoln opening the door into his apartment, the missionary saw before him his three children, sleeping peacefully in their nice beds, and his wife seated in a rocking-chair, exercising a world of self-control, in order to carry out the plot of surprising him.



CHAPTER X.

"NO WHISKEY AT THIS RAISING!"

If the Scottish bard found it a hard experience that

'The best laid schemes of mice and men Gang oft agla'

in staid old Scotland, how would he have sung if his lot had been cast amid the vicissitudes of frontier life on an American prairie?

We speak of the uncertainties of all earthly expectations where society organized, helps man in a thousand ways to achieve his plans; but there is nothing settled in a new country: everything is in embryo, and therefore disappointments are indefinitely multiplied. When the immigrant arrives at his destination, he soon finds that his most reasonable projects prove to be the veriest air-castles, and that his reliance must be on Providence and his own strong arm. This state of things is specially trying to the man of small means and unaccustomed to physical toil, as was the case with Mr. Payson. The settlers, especially those of religious character, had made, in true western style, many and generous promises to induce him to live among them. They designed to keep their engagements with him; but a thousand contingencies were continually arising, which they could not foresee, to render the fulfilment of their agreements impossible. But perhaps no failure in this direction had tried the missionary so much as that connected with the erection of a dwelling-house. Mr. Palmer had voluntarily made him the offer of money for that purpose, and if any man could be depended upon, it was he; but he had invested his funds in the new town. He was a prudent man, and when the proposal was made him by the two proprietors to join them in the enterprise, he was disinclined to do so. They were irreligious men, stirring, energetic workers, but devoid of interest in "things unseen," and therefore could not be expected to care for the present and future moral condition of the settlement. Yet we should do them the justice to say that they were not indifferent to the religious welfare of their village, only that, not being religious men, they would not take the matter in charge themselves; they needed a leader, both to plan and to set a wholesome example, and this was one reason for their asking Mr. Palmer to become a partner. This reason was a weighty one with him; but before deciding the question, he consulted with Mr. Payson.

Laying the whole matter before him, he asked,—

"What do you think of my engaging in this thing?"

"I do hope," he answered, "that, if you can make it pecuniarily successful, you will become a town owner. I should feel that I had a pillar to lean upon in all my endeavors for the social and religious good of this people, and it seems to me that there can be no risk in it; we have everything here to make a town,—water-power, timber, limestone quarries for building material, abundance of clean prairie land for agricultural purposes, and sooner or later a railroad must pass very near here, as it is on the great travelled route to the important points west and north. Emigration is coming in well; we have a religious meeting established, and I hope soon we shall have a school."

"That is the way it seems to me," said Mr. Palmer; "and it appears also, that I might do a great deal of good by using aright the power a town owner might have."

So he decided to make the investment. But mishap after mishap occurred to thwart the enterprises of the town owners; and while their expenses were large, the returns were so small that Mr. Palmer came to the preacher one day, and with emotion said,—

"Mr. Payson, I fear I shall have to disappoint you about the money I promised to let you have for the building of your cottage."

This was a heavy blow to the missionary, and his friend knew too well that it would be, for Mr. Payson had set his heart on having a comfortable home provided for his family when they should arrive. Many a pleasant bit of correspondence had passed between himself and wife on the subject of the pretty white cottage, on the eighty-acre lot adjoining the town, and the joy of meeting her was overshadowed by the thought that she had come to a homeless wilderness, while expecting something so different; and when she asked repeatedly if the cottage was ready, and when he was going to take her to see it, in his unhappiness he avoided a direct reply, which, with the ominous silence of the good friends by whom they were entertained, led her to conjecture how matters stood; and one day she lifted the weight in a measure from his heart by saying,—

"It would be very strange, while almost everybody in a new country are obliged to live in log cabins, if we should be enough better off to put up a framed house. I don't believe you have been able to yet; it is too much to expect. But never mind; if others can live within log walls for the sake of making money, we certainly can for a higher motive."

"Just like yourself," said he, gratefully, relating the facts as we have recited them.

"But what are we going to do?" she inquired; "we ought not to think of accepting the hospitality of this generous-hearted family much longer. Their house is already so crowded, it puts them to great inconvenience."

"I am aware of it," said her husband. "Mr. Palmer has a little cabin which he has offered me for temporary use until I can put up something on my claim; but it is so rough and lonely, that on your account I have not felt like saying anything to you about it."

"O," said she, merrily, "do take me there to-day; it would be so romantic to live in a log cabin."

So, their host's team being chartered, they went to look at the "rent." It was a funny wee loggery, hastily put up for pre-emption purpose, standing in a small, enclosed field near the river, two miles from town, the nearest neighbor being Mr. Jones, who lived a mile and a half farther down the stream.

Mr. Palmer, in anticipation of the visit, had been there before them, and put in a whole glass window, laid the rough boards, that constituted the floor, more closely, and put up some shelves for a cupboard in a corner.

"This is elegance itself!" exclaimed the little woman, laughing heartily: "get a few chairs, and a stove, husband, and we'll move right in; and see," she added, looking out of the door; "there are potatoes here that have not been dug—quite a crop: perhaps you can buy the right to use them."

"O, yes," replied her husband; "brother Palmer says we can have the use of the cabin free, and all there is about it."

"The fish in the river, too, I suppose," said she, stepping to the fence, and peering over the river brink.

"I reckon you won't get fish enough to get sick on them," said a voice near; and, Mr. Jones emerged from a clump of bushes, his gun on his shoulder.

"This is our neighbor," said the minister; "my wife, Mr. Jones."

"Looking up a cage to put your bird in?" asked the squatter.

The minister replied affirmatively.

"You found that eighty-acre lot just as I told ye—didn't ye?" he asked.

"Precisely."

"And did your 'brother Smith' give it up like a Christian?" he pursued.

"I suppose I am the proprietor of it now," said the minister, good-naturedly.

"And he didn't charge you anything for giving up what was not his—did he?"

"No," said the missionary; "he did not charge me anything for the claim, although he seemed to think it right that I should give him something for the improvements."

"Improvements! Yes, I suppose he expects some pay for the saw logs he stole from the lot, while he had acres on acres of timber of his own. It's no more'n fair that a Christian man should be paid for the lumber he plunders from other folks' land. You paid him for that, of course?"

"O, no," replied Mr. Payson; "he didn't bring in his bill for that. He had cleared and fenced the ten-acre piece over the river, and he said he didn't wish to lose his labor."

"Well," said Mr. Jones, almost fiercely, "I wasn't aware, elder, that you employed him to do that little job; I thought that was done last year, 'fore we knew anything 'bout you in these parts."

"Yes, yes," said the missionary, coloring.

"And I rather think," he continued, "that he got his pay for his work, as he expected to, in what he took from the land. I never saw better corn and wheat, let alone the potatoes and the pumpkins that he raised on that river bottom; and as to the rails, they belong where he took them from, that eighty-acre lot that he robbed and impoverished, tilling the soil in the summer, and cutting down the best trees in the winter, and working what he didn't care about into rails; and now he turns around,—after having skimmed your milk, when he had plenty of his own,—and tells you, as a Christian brother, that you orter pay him for taking off the cream, and making butter of it for his own table. May I ask what he charged you for the operation?"

"He asked," said the minister, "eighty dollars, but concluded to take thirty."

"And when you form your church you'll choose him first deacon—won't you?" said the squatter, sneeringly.

"Neighbor Jones," said the minister, quietly, "I find that Mr. Smith's character is pretty well understood among the settlers. From all I can learn, I judge that he has never been a member of a church, but is one of a too large class, who try to palm themselves off on religious people, that they may the better carry out their own wicked and selfish ends. I did not pay him the thirty dollars because he had a right to ask it of me, but because I had rather sacrifice something than to expose the spiritual welfare of this people by giving an occasion for a quarrel, however unjustly; and, mark me, the time will come when that money, small as the amount is, will be a burden to the conscience of that man. But," he added, suddenly changing the subject, "we expect to have a raising on my lot day after to-morrow. Cannot I rely on you for a lift?"

"Ah," said he, "what are you going to put up there—a framed house?"

"O, no," replied the minister, smiling, "only a few logs. The town owners are going to let me take down the log house they have used on the other side of the river,—as the logs are so well seasoned,—and put them up on my place; and, wife,"—turning to her,—"we shall have to depend on you for refreshments for the occasion."

"You have given me short notice," she replied, "but I can have things ready if you can manage to get supplies, and a stove up in season."

"If you want a little help in getting started here," said Mr. Jones, "I'll send up my Tom; I guess he'd like to lend you a hand."

"Could he come to-day?" asked Mrs. Payson.

"I'll send him right along," said the squatter, as he bent his steps towards home.

"What are we going to do for a stove?" asked the wife, as soon as he was out of sight.

"That'll be forthcoming," said the minister.

Tom, having made his appearance, was requested by Mr. Payson to take the team and go to town, and say to Mr. Palmer that they had decided to move into the cabin, and would like to get settled before night; which message brought Mr. Palmer back with Tom, accompanied by a wagon-load, containing a large cooking-stove, a bag of flour, some chairs, a little crockery, and a supply of various eatables. And by nightfall the missionary family were domiciled in the frontier cabin; and the next morning you would have thought the missionary's wife already quite 'westernized,' with her neat calico and tidy apron, busy in her preparations for the house-raising.

"I don't mean to stay in a borrowed house a great while," she said. "Husband, how soon do you calculate that we can be housekeeping in our own cabin?"

"It will take some weeks, do our best," he answered.

"Well," she rejoined, "I'll set the time four weeks from to-day; and if it isn't ready then, I shall go into it if I have to leave you behind."

But how slowly everything dragged, except the raising! The settlers went into that with right good will; men and teams were busy drawing the logs, while experienced hands placed them properly upon each other, till the ridge-pole crowned the whole. Then they sat down on the grass to partake of the tempting eatables that Tom and Mr. Payson had brought on the ground. There were the light biscuits and the golden butter, nice venison steaks for which they were indebted to the rifle of Mr. Jones, dried apple turnovers, and the sheets of crisp gingerbread, loaf cake, and fragrant coffee.

"We don't get any whiskey at this raising!" said Mr. Palmer, nudging his next neighbor.

"No," he replied; "and it's an example that I hope will be often followed."

Then there was the door to be made and hung, and the windows to be put in, and the crevices between the logs to be mortared, and the floors laid—long and tedious operations, where everybody was over-busy, and labor could be hired neither "for love nor money." Mr. Payson found that much of the work had to be done by himself, with the occasional help of Tom. He was city-bred, and his bodily strength feeble; but necessity obliged him to perform prodigies of teaming, lifting, and joinering, and even of quarrying stone for the well that was being dug. A few weeks had wrought a wonderful change in the man of books; his study was wherever he chanced to be; his white hands had become horny and browned, his pale face tanned. His retiring habits had given place to a broad sociality, his diffidence to a generous self-reliance, and it seemed to him that he could do and dare almost anything. From early morning till late at night he worked to get his log home ready, while his wife and little ones remained in the solitary cabin by the riverside. It was a long walk for him, however after toiling all day; and when the sky was overcast at nightfall, he was in danger of getting lost. This gave his wife much uneasiness; then she feared that he might meet some prowling wolf, or other beast, in the darkness; and when he was very late, she would be sure to think he was lost, and would ring her house-bell, which consisted of a tin pan, on which she would drum vigorously with the stove-lifter. She said he would recognize that sound, she thought, at a great distance.

But the four weeks went by, and on account of the difficulty of getting lumber, and other necessary articles, the roof was still unshingled, and the floor only half laid. The wife, like most women, had a very good memory for dates. The log cabin they occupied was open, and the prairie winds cold and piercing, and for a few days she had been quite ill; but that morning, after her unsuspicious husband had left for his joinering, Tom might have been seen guiding a yoke of cattle, attached to a cart, into the enclosure, which, after much "geeing" and "gee-hawing," he managed to make stand before the door.

"Charlie," said he, as that urchin made his appearance from the inside of the cart, "you stand by the cattle while I put the things aboard."

And bringing out a barrel filled with crockery and other things, which Mrs. Payson had clandestinely packed for the occasion, and the wash-boiler full of eatables, and hanging the chairs over the cart stakes, he took down the bedsteads, and placed them in a manner that was highly satisfactory to the energetic minister's wife, and tying up the bed-clothes in great bundles, deposited them also; and saying to Mrs. Payson, "I shall have to fix an easy place for you to ride, as you've been sick," he laid the hard beds in the empty space which he had left for that purpose in the cart, with the feather beds above, saying,—

"There, you won't feel the motion much now;" and assisting her to mount, she was enthroned on her downy seat on the top of the load, with the children in high glee by her side.

The steers, which were notoriously unruly, as if aware that they had a minister's wife aboard, behaved with becoming decorum under Tom's wise supervision.

Now, it chanced that some careless hunter, firing into the dry prairie grass on the other side of the town, had started a fire. Mrs. Payson had noticed in the morning that there was a smell of burning in the air, and a hazy appearance, but had attached no particular importance to it; but as they approached the town, a scene of great magnificence burst upon her. The fires, driven with velocity before the wind, had swept over the prairies, and reached the belt of woods, in a portion of which were the eighty acres that her husband was at work upon. The flames were crackling and roaring in the forests, burning up the dry underbrush, shooting to the tops of the old dead pines, so that the scene being constantly on her left, was more or less in view for most of the distance.

"What shall we do?" asked Tom, in alarm. "Hadn't we better go back?"

"Do you think the fire has reached my husband's claim?" she answered.

Tom scanned the appearance of the smoke with a practised eye, and at length replied,—

"No; it's not got as far as there yet."

"Do you think it will?" she inquired, anxiously.

"If the wind does not change, it must before a great while," he said, "although it will have to cross the road, which will backen it some."

"Would it burn up the cabin, then?" she inquired.

"I am afraid it would," he answered.

"Well," said she, firmly, "I said I would go into that cabin in four weeks, and if it's not burnt down, I shall keep my word. At any rate we shall be in season to see the fire!" Then she added, looking grave, "I do hope, if it is the Lord's will, that the fire will be checked in time, my husband has toiled so hard."

As the cart turned up the main street of the town, she caught sight of the cabin that was to be her future home, and she saw her husband, too, at the same moment, for there he sat on the roof, gazing at the fire, which seemed to be dying out. He heard the rumbling of the wheels as they drew near, and as he caught sight of the picturesque-looking object approaching, he called out,—

"Why, what under the canopy have we here? Wife, and babies, and household effects! What does this mean? You are not going to emigrate farther west—are you?"

"If you'll descend from your elevated position," she replied, cheerily, "I'll condescend to inform you. Now," she added, "you know I told you, husband, I should move into the cabin to-day; and did you ever know me to break my word?"

"But," said he, looking disconcerted, "I'm not ready for you yet; the floor isn't half laid."

"Well," she replied, "I can't stand it to have you sweating up here all alone at your task, running the risk of being devoured by the wolves, or losing your way at night because you think the cabin isn't comfortable enough for me. Why, you are as particular about having everything done just so about this cabin, as you used to be, east, in having every word exactly in its place when you wrote your sermons. Please, now, just help Tom unload, and set these things in, and I'll have tea ready directly, and we'll be where we can cheer you a bit. But what about this fire?"

"Our cabin has had a very narrow escape."

"Yes," said Tom, coming up, "I've been out to look, and the fire just came up to your line, and then stopped."

Mr. Payson was deeply affected by the intelligence, for, knowing that no human power could stay the advancing flames, upon the cabin top he had been praying that the wind might change. Was it in answer to his silent petitions that it had taken place in so timely a manner?



CHAPTER XI.

OLD MRS. SKINFLINT IN TROUBLE.—LOST IN THE WOODS.

There is no man so bad as he might be—a fact that everybody knows, but that most are apt to forget in their estimate of those who have offended their sense of right.

Mr. Smith had his virtues as well as faults; perhaps more of the latter than the former; but there were some mollifying circumstances to be taken into the account in the summing up of his character. His natural love of money had been stimulated and intensified by the malign influence of his wife. She was miserly when he married her. To keep what she had, and get what she could, was her ruling passion; besides which she had a passion for ruling. And often, when her husband's gentler heart would be touched by a tale of suffering, and his hand be opened to relieve the distressed, would she interfere to prevent the indulgence of the benevolent impulse; and now, after some thirty years' matrimonial moulding, he had become so assimilated to her grasping spirit, and so accustomed to yield to her stronger will, that his dealings in business made him appear worse than he really was. In the sale of the "eighty-acre lot" to the missionary, about which much indignation was felt in the settlement, Mrs. Smith was the chief actor. Mr. Smith was the monkey employed to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, although, it must be confessed, he relished the chestnuts. She was a crafty woman, and kept out of sight in the transaction while she urged him on, so that people saw only Mr. Smith in the wrong-doing, when, if they could have peeped behind the curtain, they would have seen that his "better half" was the more guilty.

The thirty dollars which Mr. Smith finally consented to take for the "improvements on the claim," Mr. Payson was unable to pay all at once; he was, therefore, subjected to many vexatious duns for the balance. Fearing that, at last, her husband would relent, and the debt might not all be realized, Mrs. Smith resolved to turn collector herself. So, putting on her best cap, and her faded black alpaca, she made her way through the woods to the missionary's cabin.

When she reached it, she found no one but Tom and Bub within; for Mr. Lincoln had called with his team, and taken the family to dine at his house.

"Is the minister to home?" she asked.

"No," replied Tom.

"When will he be back?"

"I don't know," said Tom; "but he expects to attend a wedding this evening, and, as it's now 'most four, I expect him every minute."

"Then," said she, "I guess I'll take a chair and wait. My husband has a small bill agin him, and I thought maybe he'd just as lief pay it now as any time."

She was garrulous and inquisitive, plying Tom with all sorts of questions about the minister's family, much to the annoyance of the lad, who, remembering that there were certain errands yet to be done that afternoon,—for Tom was now often at the cabin assisting the minister,—he asked her if she would look after Bub while he went to the village, saying he thought it likely the family would return before he did. The old lady rather liked the arrangement, as it would give her a chance to inspect the housekeeping of the minister's wife; and, watching Tom till he was well into town, she commenced her examinations. First she opened the closet door to see how the dishes were arranged, for she had heard that once on a time the good man's lady had committed the great crime of writing a book; and she had often remarked that "anybody that could waste their time in sich a way must be a master slack housekeeper." To her disappointment, however, she found that quite as good order, and rather more taste, reigned there than in her own pantry, but was relieved again a moment at finding an unwashed plate.

"Just as I thought," she muttered, with a grunt of satisfaction.

Having finished her leisurely inspection of the cupboard, during which she smelled of the bread to see if it was sour, broke off a bit of the cake to see if it was extravagant, and sucked some plum sauce from the ends of her fingers, she started to peer under the bed to ascertain if there was any dust there, when, hearing a noise, supposing that the minister had come, she turned and closed the closet door, and reseated herself, wiping her mouth with her apron as she did so. This change of posture brought her into full view of the stairs leading to the loft above, which humble place, under the roof, the clergyman used for a study when he wished to be very much retired. On the stairs, descending with solemn step and slow, was Bub, with the minister's old hat on, which he kept above his eyes by one chubby hand, and the minister's steel-bowed glasses resting on his nose, and the good man's dressing-gown trailing magnificently behind. Bub's manner showed that he felt his consequence much increased by his clerical outfit, and the benignant gravity of his face was edifying to behold.

"Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the old lady; "what on airth you up to, you imp o' Satan? Can't you berhave in the minister's house?" and, seizing the urchin as he landed, she only ceased shaking him as the spectacles dropped to the floor.

This reception was wholly unexpected to poor Bub, and, as she relieved him of his ministerial vestments, he sobbed indignantly,—

"Now Bub go wite away, and never come back no more!" and, opening the door, he marched resolutely out.

The elderly caller had now the congenial duty to do of restoring the minister's apparel to its proper place overhead; and, glancing out of the window, to be sure nobody was coming, she ascended to the missionary's sanctum sanctorum.

Now, Rev. Mr. Payson, in his varied pursuits of preacher, pastor, house-carpenter, stone-mason, farmer, and doctor,—for, having skill in medicine, the sick depended somewhat on his medical care,—he was quite apt to leave his uninviting study in disorder, especially when suddenly called from home. Moreover, like the other cabins in a new country, the house was overrun with field mice, making it, as Mr. Payson sometimes said, "dangerous to sleep with one's mouth open, lest a mouse might mistake it for his hole, and pop in." Whether, however, such a suffocating casualty would occur or not, the wee animals chased each other along the logs, ransacked the closet, scampered across the beds, nibbling at everything that tempted their sharp little teeth; even the clergyman's books and papers were mutilated by them most irreverently.

The sight of the sheets and bits of writing paper, the news journals, and old reviews,—for the missionary, unable to take the current publications, read and re-read the old ones with a mournful satisfaction,—and the other signs of confusion which prevailed, and which so annoyed his wife, were as refreshing to Mrs. Smith's eyes as the first glimpse of land to Columbus.

"Zactly as I expected," she ejaculated, lifting her hands in horror. "I alluz hearn tell that these ere lit'ry women are a shiftless set. I should think it would worry a man's life out of his body to be jined to sich a hussy. Why, there's my Betsy Ann; she ken go a visitin' more 'n half the time, and her husband never said boo agin her house-work; an' I've known lots o' women what could embroider, an' play the piana, an' make heaps o' calls, an' attind balls an' sich till enymost mornin', an' they'd no more think o' wastin' their time in writin' a book than cuttin' their heads off! But duzzn't them books look pooty on them shelves? I should think it would make the minister's head split if he knows all that's in them volums; an' they do say he's ter'ble larned. Well, I mustn't stay here no longer, though it's jist as I expected." And, returning to the room below, she lifted her hands again in astonishment as she saw by the clock that it was five. "I guess John'll have to git his own fodder to-night, or go without. He's used to it, though. I brings my man up not to expect a woman to drudge, drudge, about house. But, mercy me!" she exclaimed, "where's that child gone to? I warrant he's in some mischief;" and, opening the door, she called,—

"Bub, Bub! come inter the huss!"

But Bub did not answer. So she went around the cabin, but could see nothing of him, and, thinking that he would not come because it was she that called him, she added,—

"Come right in now; Tom wants yer."

There was only a slight clearing around the cabin, and then came a thick growth of bushes, and beyond, the woods on either hand, save the path in the direction of the town. It was but a few rods to the nearest house in the village, and she hurried there to make inquiries, for she was becoming anxious for the child. But the children, playing near by, said that Bub had not passed that way, so, running back, she instituted a new search in the vicinity of the cabin, calling him as before, and receiving no answer; and, as there was a wide cart track leading into the woods from the cabin door, thinking it natural for the child to stray that way, she hastened in that direction.

We have said that Mr. Smith had his virtues as well as weaknesses; and, of course, his wife was not "totally depraved," in the sense in which that much-controverted term is not intended by those who hold that man is naturally sinful. And, as she had borne children, a motherly solicitude was now awakened in her heart for Bub, and she pressed anxiously down the path, while the deepening twilight steadily increased the gloom that lingered in the shadows of the lofty trees. The cart track grew less distinct as she advanced; and, as she had not found Bub, she concluded to return and alarm the neighbors, but found her course impeded on every side by the thick underbrush, for she had lost the main path. With desperate efforts she pushed aside the strong-armed boughs, and struck once more the cart track, as she supposed; but, alas for her, she was mistaken. Her head had become bewildered, and she was penetrating into the depths of the forest. On, on she urged her steps, wondering that she did not come in sight of the minister's cabin, when, to her delight, she heard a sound like the crying of a child. Now a heavy load was lifted from her mind.

"I must be nearing the cabin," thought she; "and that's Bub;" and she called with unusual tenderness, "Bub, Bub! Where are you?"

She listened intently, expecting a response, and heard again the same sound, but, strangely, farther off. So she quickened her speed, calling the boy with renewed vigor. Wearied at last in her fruitless endeavors, she stopped to rest a moment, and collect her scattered faculties. She was an apt calculator in money matters, and that faculty, summoned into exercise now, convinced her that she had passed over many times the distance needed, had she been going in the right direction; and the horrible conclusion that she was lost in the woods thrilled her with terror. She recollected also that there had been stories told of late of a panther's voice being heard in those woods, and that it sounded like the crying of a child. This increased her fear.

While she was considering what to do in her extremity, a short, quick bark, far in the forest behind her, succeeded by a prolonged howl, the bloodthirsty cry of the "timber wolf,"—which, when once heard, can never be forgotten,—broke on her ear. She had lived too long in the wilderness not to know what that meant, and she fled with wondrous swiftness down the path, on, on, she knew not whither. Her trembling limbs began to fail; but again the fiendish wolf-cry resounded, succeeded by that of another, and yet another,—showing that the call of the first had brought others to the chase,—made her forget her weakness, and, like a spirit, away she sped, once more, on the race for life. The race, however, was an unequal one, and its fearful termination was soon staring her in the face, as she heard the ferocious creatures drawing near; when, to her relief, she saw ahead a small, untenanted cabin. It was a shanty used by the woodsmen in the winter while felling trees. The door was off its hinges; and, passing swiftly in, in the agony of despair, she glanced around for a hiding-place. But the room was equally open to the wolves as to herself. Instantly, in a manner that seemed almost superhuman, she passed up the side of the cabin to a beam laid for an upper floor, and stood there, clinging, with her bony fingers to the wall, as motionless as a marble statue, while the wolves, disappointed of their prey, sat on the floor below, lapping their hungry jaws, and watching her till dawn, where she was found by a party who had been searching for her all night. She was speechless when rescued, and utterly unable for a time to give any account of herself. Her first inquiry, however, when she could remember what had happened, was for little Bub.

"I guess," said one of the men, soothingly, "he has turned up all right afore now."

But as she insisted on going to the minister's to ascertain if Bub was safe, they assisted her there, where were assembled a number of women, among whom was Mrs. Jones, anxious about the lost child, for no trace of him had been discovered.

When Bub was so unceremoniously disrobed of his priestly garments by Mrs. Smith's skinny hand, highly offended at so gross an invasion of his rights and dignities, to console himself he determined to run home and tell his mother of the outrage.

Now the "make of the land," back of the missionary's cabin, was much like that near his father's, and therefore he took his way in that direction, instead of the one Mrs. Smith had surmised. He had taken quite a walk when he saw the stream that divided the minister's lot. Remembering that there was a river back of his mother's cabin, he concluded that his home was on the other side of the stream before him. The cornstalks, too, left standing in the cleared ground opposite, were in sight, and they resembled the corn that Tom had cut and stacked. So he trudged up and down the bank to find a way to cross, till he came to a tree which had been felled for that purpose, and constituted the only bridge, the topmost boughs of which rested on the other side, just as the stream was bridged below his father's cabin, but upon which he had often been charged not to venture. Bub had been so often charged on this point, and impressed with the danger, that he did not forget it now; and, while he amused himself with dropping sticks into the water, and watching to see them carried along by the current, he called,—

"Mother, come, get Bub, if you don't want him drownded up."

And, as his mother did not make her appearance, he shouted for Sarah, till, as it was getting dusk, he felt afraid to linger longer, and mounted the tree. It was a dizzy height above the water, and Bub's curly pate would whirl whenever he glanced below; so, as he could not walk steadily, he sat down, and tried to hitch along as he had seen Sarah do. This was not much better for him, and he began creeping on all fours; and, with many an admonitory slip, which served to make him the more careful, he had got nearly across, when he fell, holding his breath from fright. Fortunately, however, he had reached the lower limbs, and the friendly branches held him until he was able to regain the trunk of the tree; and ere long his little feet pressed terra firma.

The cultivated ground was not fenced next the river, the bank being sufficiently steep to keep out stray cattle, and Bub found some difficulty in scaling it; but as he was hungry for supper, and had something of a will of his own, despite his short legs and frequent tumbles, at last he succeeded. And, wandering around in the cornfield, vainly seeking his mother's cabin, baffled in his efforts, and finding that crying was of no avail, tired, frightened, and dispirited, he leaned his head against a clump of cornstalks, and, falling gently from the support to the soft soil, he dropped asleep as the darkness came on.

But where was Tom? When he returned from doing the errands, he was surprised at not finding either Mrs. Smith or Bub at the minister's, and was standing undecided what to do, when the clergyman drove up. Tom immediately stated his perplexity.

"You don't suppose the woman went home, leaving Bub here alone, and the child has strayed away?" suggested Mrs. Payson, apprehensively.

"I scarcely think a woman of her age would be so imprudent," replied her husband. "She may, however, have gone to the village, and taken the child with her for safe keeping. It would be well, Tom, to go down and see."

Tom was hurrying along, when a lad called out,—

"Did the old woman find Bub?" and he related how she came there in search of him. This startled Tom, and, hastening back, he told Mr. Payson what he had heard.

"Perhaps, then," said the minister, "the old lady got tired of waiting for me, and took Bub home with her. You may take the team and ride over there."

Finding that Mr. Smith had not seen his wife, Tom at once concluded that there must be something seriously wrong; and he said,—

"I was told at the village that your wife was there, trying to find Bub. It may be they are both lost in the woods. Now, if you will get the settlers about here together, I will rouse the villagers, and we will make a search."

We have already described the finding of the lost woman.

The ground on the side of the river next to the minister's cabin had been looked over repeatedly, and no one seemed to think it possible that the child had crossed the river, and the conclusion came to be general that he had either been carried off by a wild beast, or fallen into the water, and been drowned; and preparations were made for dragging the stream for the body, when one of the party saw a bit of cloth, which Tom recognized as torn from Bub's dress, flaunting from a twig on the tree-bridge.

"He must be on the other side!" cried Tom; and, with new hope, the party rushed to explore the field, shouting his name.

"Here I be!" answered a childish voice; and they found him seated on the ground, composedly picking the kernels from an ear of corn, the channels which the tears had ploughed on his unwashed cheeks being the only evidence of the sorrows through which he had passed; and he said, with the air of one whose feelings had been wounded by undeserved neglect,—

"I hasn't had any dinner."

Some theologians tell us that the sinful should never be addressed through their fears; that love can only reform the erring. Perhaps Mrs. Smith was unlike the rest of the race; but the terrors of that night wrought a change in her; and Mr. Payson was surprised one day by Mr. Smith's calling at his cabin with a fine quarter of beef, saying, as he lugged it in,—

"I've been killing an ox, elder; and wife thought, if you wouldn't be offended, that I'd better bring you down a piece;" adding, as he rose to go, "Here's that due-bill that you gave me for the improvements on the ten acres. Wife says you've paid enough on it; so I've receipted it, and will call it square, if you will. And, by the way, when you are out of butter, just send over to our house; we can spare you a few pounds, now and then, just as well as not."



CHAPTER XII.

FIRE AND FLOOD.

The sum which had been pledged by the settlers was not sufficient for the support of the missionary's family; and although the treasurer exerted himself to the utmost, he could only collect a portion of what was due from those whose names were on the subscription paper. No one felt the inconvenience of this more than the clergyman's wife. She was a good manager, and had a wonderful faculty for making "one dollar go as far as three, and getting up meals out of nothing," as her husband often remarked. But it must be confessed, that with the keen appetites brought to them on the wings of the prairie winds, the little household sometimes rose from the scantily-furnished table hungry for more.