The workmen were just leaving off when we reached the place that was to be home for the Little Girl, and where she was to spend many happy days. To-morrow they were to raise the framework. There was no eight-hour day or discussion at that period. I gathered an armful of blocks and made the fire. We broiled slices of ham and had some excellent bread, in the making of which my mother excelled. Mr. Gaynor was much interested in Fort Dearborn, and strong in his denunciation of General Hull delivering up Detroit, as it had inspired the Indians with hopes of re-conquest of many of the posts. But heroic Anthony Wayne had soon turned the tide.

"I thought you were going to stay all night," exclaimed my mother rather tartly, "or that ther' had been a new Indian raid and you had lost your headpiece. Ther' ain't much sense in it, 'pears like, but you'd look rather queer without it."

I only laughed a little. It was the best way of restoring her to good humor. The men were nearly always off playing cards. Dan was nineteen, a fine strapping fellow, good looking too, and a great hand for argument. A little one between Dan and myself had died.

Mother went to the vendue and bought some necessary furnishings for the new house. Meanwhile the frame had been raised, the near neighbors turning out to help. Mr. Gaynor's being a Yankee went rather against him, but the fact that he had some cash to pay out evened up matters. He treated generously to whiskey—they were steady drinkers in those days—and could stand a good deal. He was very abstemious I learned afterward.

Mother also found an old colored woman, half a century seemed to age the negroes then, and Aunt Becky had grandchildren grown up. She was quite a famous cook, and at the rush times at the taverns, holidays and political gatherings cooked for the feasts. Any of them would have employed her all the time, but working steady was her aversion. She was persuaded, however, to go for two or three hours a day, until better, or steadier, help could be obtained.

I dropped in at the warehouse and found to my great joy that I had secured the position.

"Now you've only got to carry yourself straight and keep a civil tongue in your head," said my father, "and you'll get a good business insight that'll make your fortune some day, if you have brains enough; and you keep out of taverns and cards and let whiskey alone until you get ballast enough not to run aground."

There was, I suppose, a good deal of dissipation in those days, but men were strong and hardy too. Quarrels were not infrequent and occasionally had a desperate ending. But there were some admirable homes, and mothers who left a strong moral impress on their families. The living had a certain fine simplicity if it was not so intellectual.

I liked my new place very much. I was general factotum, to be sure, with occasionally an over-measure of hard words. Mr. Harris always stood my friend. He soon found that I was ready at figures and had what he called ideas; my mother's homely name for it was "gumption." Mr. Gaynor used the word also.

Did any one then, with all the boasting and bragging, imagine that in half a century Chicago would spring into wonderful prominence, outstripping older towns with a vivid maturity, be burned to ashes, rise again and lift itself not only out of ashes but out of the slough, and if it could not be a city set on a hill, still become marvellous in its advancement of all kinds? I thought then that Eagle fleet of vessels was simply astonishing with the freights they carried across the lake. Men were fighting then for a canal, a clear waterway to the Mississippi without any portage.

I liked to hear Mr. Harris's reminiscences of the town. LeVasseur & Hubbard opened the first dry-goods store about 1820. Mr. LeVasseur was a fine man and did a good deal of trading with the Indians for furs, and had several outlying posts. Mr. Hubbard was a very public-spirited and ambitious citizen. Then for years he coasted up and down the lake in Canadian bateaux, commonly known as Mackinaw boats. Some years before this he had erected a large brick building on LaSalle Street, often termed Hubbard's folly, where beef and pork were packed for the outlying trade. His faith in the town was undaunted by the numerous mishaps, and he was Commissioner of the Illinois and Michigan canal, and turned the first shovel of dirt on the nation's birthday, July fourth, though it languished for several years.

I went early and often stayed late, but ran away at noon to see how it fared with the Little Girl, though I found my mother was taking a useful oversight of her. The house went along as if by magic. I can recall our reading a few fairy stories later on about palaces springing up in a night, and she laughingly said—"That was the way with our old house, do you remember?"

The main room had a wide fireplace, the smaller one beside it was for Ruth, and here stood her cot and a rude dressing-table and bureau, which was simply a large box shelved, with a curtain drawn before it. Then the old log house was patched up and made into a comfortable kitchen. There was plenty of scrubby pine for firewood when one could get nothing better. Mother's vendue furniture comprised a large table, with leaves supported with a brace and let down when not in use, a cot, a bedstead set up in the best room, quite a fashion then, several chair frames that could be new seated and various kitchen utensils with some dishes.

Mr. Gaynor was a "handy" man, an ingenious Yankee. In a couple of months he was in great demand, and his odd jobs supplied the family living, for money being a scarce commodity, barter was much in favor. He was very shrewd at bargain making, but he had a pleasant, half-whimsical way with him that made and kept friends.

There were several schools now, though it did not need a very old resident to remember the first one opened at the end of Mr. Kinzie's garden, where the children spelled in concert out of the book found in a tea chest, and learned arithmetic orally. Then Mr. Watkins taught boys in a room off the postoffice, or rather the building used for that and sundry other purposes.

A Miss Chappel with her friend, Mary Barrows, came from Mackinaw and opened a school for girls and young children. Afterward Miss Chappel married the Presbyterian minister, Reverend Mr. Porter, but she still took a warm interest in education. Miss Barrows went on with the school.

We were Methodists, though for some years every denomination had been represented. A veteran Methodist preacher, Rev. Jesse Walker, had succeeded in building a small frame church at Clark and North Water streets. The women were the most regular church goers. The children were fond of the Sunday School, for a large part of the exercises consisted in singing.

Mr. Gaynor was pleased to have Ruth go. Big boys were apt to stray off, but I was very regular now, and often walked home with the Little Girl, and on these occasions we had fine fun cooking supper. Then we would sit before the fire and talk or read. Books were not very abundant. Mr. Gaynor had an old Bible, the "Pilgrim's Progress," a copy of "The Lady of the Lake," and a few old school books. The "Pilgrim's Progress" we found very entertaining. To us it was real travels, and the characters absolute people.

Ruth came over to the house often on Saturday, as Miss Barrows kept that day for herself. She learned to cook, to sew and began to spin a little. She knew how to knit, except that she did not quite understand shaping a stocking.

The boys were rather rough and shy at first, but after a little they quite adored her, and hunted up curious things for presents. Homer was a jolly sort of lad, Ben rather gentle, but Chris rough and tormenting. I used to envy them the Saturdays.

Winter set in early. What tremendous winds scurried across the lake, beating up great waves, or rushed down from the north and sometimes threatened to drown us out! Navigation had to be given up mostly; we had not then learned what fetters and warders to put on the inland sea.

And then the snow! The great drifts blowing in from the prairies, the roads trodden down as solid as stone, the sledges and rude sort of sleighs, the jingle of bells for those who were lucky enough to own any. Part of the time the Little Girl could not venture out, though Ben often brought her home on his sled.

"But it is all so beautiful," she said, looking over the wide prairie one Sunday. "Norman, what is over beyond the Mississippi?"

"Mountains and mountains."

Some hardy explorers had gone out, but we knew nothing of the western coast then.

"And then?" with gentle insistence.

"The Pacific Coast."

"The Delectable Mountains and the beautiful land where the shepherds are feeding their flocks, and where there are vineyards and gardens and flowers of every hue and fragrance. It is the Promised Land, Norman. Some day you and I will start and travel—it will take weeks and weeks, and we shall be filled with delight at its loveliness. We will start quite by ourselves, and keep our secret until we do go."

She looked gravely inspired as her eyes turned westward over the wastes of snow.

Years afterward we were to go to the beautiful land and wander among orange groves and vines and figs and such flowers as we had not dreamed of then, but the name of the country was California.

I put my arm over her shoulder. How fair she was, and her sapphire eyes shone with a kind of unearthly light. Now and then there came over me a strange sort of fear as if sometime she might vanish away to an unknown world and I be left alone.

"You are cold," I said; "come in doors."

The great log had burned in twain and now broke with a crash, sending up myriad sparks while the red coals seemed to pulsate like living things. I stirred them up, brought the ends together, and the next moment we had a magnificent blaze.

"Oh, let us pop some corn," she cried. She was down to earth again. "Yes, it does feel lovely here by the fire. I'll go for the corn."

But I thrust down my arm in the great box and brought up two ears, so that I could shell one with the other. Mr. Gaynor, with the aid of the blacksmith, had made a tolerable popper. I drew out the coals and then shelled a handful. She held it and shook it from time to time, and we laughed at the snapping and bouncing. We took off the lid. It wasn't just the kind of corn to turn inside out, like a white rose, but some of it was very soft and velvety. I liked the really roasted grains the best. She, girl-like, preferred the more delicate ones. So we laughed and ate our fill until we were thirsty.

"Oh," she began suddenly, "let us read 'The Lady of the Lake.'"

I did not think I was very fond of verse. It suggested the hymn book that I looked over now and then, and that always left an uncomfortable feeling in my mind.

She hunted up the book, and bringing a small stand near the fire lighted the candle. We had made the blaze of the pine torch standing up in the corner do duty until then.

"I am going to read," she began. "I liked it so much one day. But you must sit up very straight and not go to sleep. This first part about the Harp of the North, I don't care for, so I'll begin here.

Then she suddenly paused, "This is all in Scotland. Do you know where Scotland is?"

"It is north of England."

"We haven't liked England over well. Grandmother Marvin used to talk about the War of 1812, for grandfather was a sailor and was killed. And there was all the Revolution. Do you think we will ever fight England again?"

"If we do we'll lick her again," I said with boyish American grit.

"I shouldn't mind war against the Indians," she said slowly. "And I do hope England will stay over the other side of the ocean, and—Norman," hesitatingly, "did you ever see a real deer?"

"Why, yes. That's where they get venison steak."

"Oh, now, I will begin again."

She read very clearly and with the appreciation that gives the listener an insight into the real meaning. I could not have gone to sleep. The chase stirred all my blood, but I was glad the deer escaped. The lovely lake among the mountains, the maiden in her skiff, the encounter, the guidance, the enchanted hall, the welcome to the unknown knight of Snowdoun, and the promise of the song. Why, I remembered lines of it and said myself to sleep with them.

"That is the end of the first canto. Next Sunday night you shall read. It sounds like music, doesn't it?" closing the old book.

"Yes," I assented. It still rang in my ears.

There was a shuffling and stamping at the door. Mr. Gaynor beat out his old hat on the post.

"Jerusalem! The old woman's feather bed has burst open this time, I guess. Why, you can't see your hand before you. I've been in snows before, but this is about the worst old tougher I ever encountered. Norme—" he had taken up the familiar name—"thank your stars you are this near the warehouse, if, indeed, you can get there at all to-morrow morning. But I don't suppose there'll be much trade," with a short chuckle.

I knew that was an invitation to stay all night. I had stayed twice before in a pouring rain.

"Oh, let's see!" Ruth sprang up.

But as she opened the door a swirl of snow flew nearly across the room, and she staggered.

It took both of us to shut the door and then we put up the bar. For a few moments it was a primitive cyclone. Ruth brushed the snow out of her hair and eyes and laughed. Mr. Gaynor stirred up the fire.

"I hope you're satisfied. You saw the snow," he said jocosely.

The wind swept about with a murderous howl as only a western prairie wind can. A flock of wolves could not have equalled it in the shrieks. Then there would be a long bay like that of some great hound, or a mocking whistle as if the fiends were abroad. We really could not talk. Mr. Gaynor helped himself liberally to roasted corn.

Presently it died down and was solemnly still. The Yankee clock on the corner shelf in the best room—John Gaynor could not have lived without that—struck nine.

"Time to be coverin' up fires," he said. "Sis, you run to bed. Want to see the snow again?"

"Yes, I do," with laughing persistence.

He opened the door cautiously. The great white sheet was like a wall. You could not see it stir at first, but there was a muffled sound in the air, an indescribable sound almost like the echo of music miles and miles away.

"It is wonderful!" the Little Girl said, her eyes like a clear midnight sky. "It is a strange world, terrible sometimes, too."

"Better spread that wolf skin over your bed," her father advised as he returned her good-night.

I crawled over to the back part of John Gaynor's bed, though there was a great mound of feathers between us. People were hale and hearty in those days, if they did sleep half buried in feathers. But it seemed to me all night long that I heard the melody of the little girl's voice in the sweetest of cadences.

It was the first big snow of the season and now it was mid December. One had to begin at once to dig out window shutters and doors, but as the doors opened on the inside they were more manageable. It was still gray and cold and one had to be muffled up to the eyes. We shovelled a path out to the road, then threw it this way and that until it was a decent level and hammered it down with a shovel. Then we took the back to the pigpen. We heard the grunts, so they were not frozen. Indeed they had a tolerably warm home provided for them.

Ruth made pancakes. Mr. Gaynor had quite a large round ring of iron that one put on the coals. The pan stood on the top of this; a good big pan it was, and the batter was poured out of the pitcher. Ruth liked small, dainty cakes, her father enjoyed them about as big as a dinner plate. He had a curious knack of turning them without flopping. He liked them quite thick as well, so he baked several first.

"Those little fellows ain't a mouthful for a good-sized man!" he declared. "'Twould keep you eating all day."

We had fried pork besides, and it was wonderfully good. There was "long sweetenin'," a thick sort of molasses. Sometimes we had a kind of maple sugar syrup. Ruth and I baked, and then we sat down to eat, and told over the funny sayings that we could recall. It was very jolly.

The wood was piled up in a sort of lean-to at the side of the house, so I brought in a supply of that. We went out in the street again and a few pedestrians were snowballing each other. A sort of drag with four oxen came along to break the road a little. The town looked like a nest of small white beehives. The snow had blown off the trees, and they stood bare and black against the sky, the finer branches as if traced by a pencil.

I thought I would venture down to the warehouse, but I had not gone far when I met one of the clerks, who reported everything "stiller'n the grave," so I turned about. We played high low Jack, and then I took up "fox and geese" with Ruth, who couldn't see why I should beat whether I was fox or geese. So to her great delight I let her pen up the poor fox, while her father sat by and smoked his corn cob pipe. Then we shelled a lot of corn, and had a late dinner of fried chicken, at which Mr. Gaynor tried his hand, and it was excellent. I thought I should like to see my father undertake to cook!

Afterward I declared I must go home.

"Oh, why do you?" asked Ruth pleadingly.

"I don't want to wear my welcome out, I want to come again."

"He ain't likely to, is he, Sis? Seems to me his folks might spare one boy when they have so many. Let's toss up a cent to see which one. This is for Homer."

"But I don't want Homer," with pretty petulance.

"Ben or Chris?" He was twirling the penny in his fingers.

"I don't want any boy but Norman."

"And up at Hubbard's they have a mortgage on him. They're trying to teach him how many black beans make five."

Ruth knitted her pretty forehead, then said disdainfully, "As if he didn't know!"

"Well, then, if a pig can eat a bushel of corn in twenty-four hours, how much fat will it put on his bones? This is a matter of great importance to Mr. Gurdon Hubbard. I think he has offered a prize for its solution," and he winked at me.

"A pig couldn't eat it," she said; "he would be a hog."

We both laughed at that.

"Now, young fellow, if you get lost in the snow, don't blame us. We've given you fair warning. 'Tain't likely the house will blow over, seeing as it stood the gale of last night. And, reely, I don't believe it will rain to-night and loosen the underpinning, and there's enough to eat."

In spite of this friendliness I had to tear myself away. But I did get stuck in more than one pile of snow and twice had to fight my way through showers of snowballs.

We never saw clear ground again until March. There was not much business doing and the men gathered in the warm taverns to play cards and swap stories and demolish political candidates, and praise or blame Old Hickory, as the President was termed who had fought his country's battles and served her for nearly eight years in the highest civil capacity. That the country would go to ruin without him was surely predicted; that he had brought her to the verge of ruin the other side claimed.

Every few days I was at the Gaynors', but the Little Girl had given up school. She knit stockings, she sewed and cooked, and we both concluded "The Lady of the Lake" was the loveliest of all lovely stories.