The picnic was a grand event, a new sort of entertainment. Some distance to the southeast was the nearest real woods about us. Here and there would be a belt of scrubby pines, good for little besides firewood, or a group of cottonwood trees. But this might justly be called a forest.

Tree planting had aroused no especial interest except the fruit and shade trees in some of the newer residences. A wide clearing was considered a greater protection in the earlier days, as one could sight roving bands of Indians when there was nothing to shelter them.

One would have thought from the discussions that the question of salvation was imperilled by this new form of dissipation. Still the day was carried for it, and some of the old people and most of the provision went out in great ox carts. But the children and young people did not mind walking and were full of spirit and eagerness.

I managed to get off for half a day. Fortunately, the sun went under a cloud now and then, for which I was thankful as I hurried along. And when I came in sight I stood still a moment with a strange awe, touched by the beauty of the scene. The trees had grown up tall and straight, with no troublesome underbrush. The branches made arches overhead and waved to and fro against the sky, that in most places had a background of faint gray, where darker clouds went drifting over it, or here and there parted to show a rift of blue. I did not know about dryads or wood nymphs in those days, but the figures flitting about gave me a curious unreal sense, as if they could scarcely be human beings. As I came nearer the hum of the voices and the swish of the two swings through a clear path, barely escaping the rugged tree boles or a drooping branch, mingled with the shout of some daring boy who twisted a little and escaped damage.

There had been a fire built, and the uprights with the crotch were standing but the crosspiece had caught the blaze at last and fallen except at one end. A heap of ashes, and charred sticks lying about the edge looked rather melancholy, yet I had seen the like many a time when a band of roving Indians, tired with a long journey, had stopped to cook a meal. There were groups of women together, some of them with babies, and others with their knitting, while they sang the hymns most in vogue at that day. One haunts me through all this lapse of time:

and it always suggests those old pioneer missionaries of the Roman Church, who braved all dangers and even death to carry the Gospel to the Indians of the far west.

The children were having a grand time, as I both heard and saw, as I came nearer. They were playing "tag," from point to point, running in and out in a fashion that might have designed a labyrinth, groups sitting on the dry leaves playing mumble peg, a few big boys outside tossing up pennies. Then a girl holding some of her compeers in awe with a ghost story. What an odd, pretty picture it was!

"Oh, Norman, I was afraid you wouldn't come," and a gentle step ran up behind me and caught my arm. I had been peering about for her.

"It is a long walk," I said, "and through the heat."

"Yes, but it is lovely here. Oh, you'll want to sit down and rest."

"That ain't a bit fair, Ruth Gaynor! You'll break up the play."

"Here's Betty March—she'll take my place."

"Oh, yes, you're very fine going off with a boy. Betty don't know how to play."

"If it's telling riddles, I guess I do," rather indignantly, returned Betty.

"But it's guessing them."

"I don't believe that'll puzzle me. I've heard every riddle in Chicago."

"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed a dozen voices in chorus.

We passed on.

"I've had a nice, nice time. Do you want to swing?"

"No," I returned. "Let us find a cool place and sit down."

There were older couples who had achieved such a search and were enjoying it evidently. We plunged a little deeper in the forest.

"Oh, I do love trees so much, a great woods full of them. I wish they grew up all around the town."

I was used to its barrenness, but the beauty and awe of this touched me. A woodpecker ran up and down a tree, surveying it with his beady black eyes and drumming with his bill. Then he paused, turned his head this way and that with a dainty sort of assurance, and suddenly drew a worm out of his snug nest and away he flew. We looked at each other and laughed.

Then a squirrel came scampering along and eyed us suspiciously, but as we did not stir he grew braver. How pretty he was with his bushy tail like a waving plume.

"Oh, I wish I had a bit of bread," cried Ruth, "I have two quite tame ones at home. They beg so prettily that I love to tease them a little, and sometimes I hide the bread to see them hunt for it. They have a home in that old gnarled tree. I found it out one time, and I was afraid the cat would get at them."

"Oh, they would fight the cat if she poked her nose in the hole."

"I hope they would."

Great black ants scurried about this way and that, listening or thinking, it seemed, and occasionally one dragged a burden as big as himself. What queer people they were! And, later on, when I came to know more about them, I was filled with a curious admiration.

The soft wind cradled in the green branches murmured its wonderful song, the keynote to so many melodies. It seemed as if we had gone into some enchanted country.

"It is a real forest," she said musingly. "And now one need not be afraid of Indians—" yet she peered about suspiciously.

"But there might be a bear," I said, teasingly.

"A bear!" Her eyes were large with fright and she caught my arm. "Are there really bears—"

"There was one not so very long ago. He made havoc with some pigs and the men turned out for a bear hunt. You see there's no hiding place for them on the prairies, so he ran off into these woods, and they caught him indulging in a comfortable rest. But he had sharp ears and when he found he was pursued he climbed up a tree."

"Oh, that was bright and funny too," laughing.

"But a few shots dislodged him. There was quite an excitement. So we had plenty of bear steak."

"Oh, poor fellow," pityingly.

"And they dressed the hide and gave it to the mayor—a real native robe, not quite a buffalo, though."

"Did any others come?"

"To the funeral? Oh, no. He must have strayed away from his compeers. But there are plenty of wolves."

"Yes, father killed one in the winter that was prowling round."

She leaned her head down on my shoulder. How lovely and peaceful it was. I could have drowsed off, but a voice roused me.

"Ruth, Ruth Gaynor?" with a boyish cadence.

"Oh," opening her eyes, then listening. "That's Ben's voice, isn't it? I promised to walk with him if he would swing the children. Can't we three walk together if you are rested? And I believe I went to sleep. Norman, this wood is like reading beautiful poetry. Oh, do you remember 'The Lady of the Lake'?"

"Ruth Gaynor?"

She gave a pretty call as we rose. Then glancing around, we started toward a little opening and presently heard a crunch on the leafy turf, and discerned a figure going in a direction that would have taken him quite by us, only I called, rather against my will.

"Hello, Norme! When did you come?" He certainly did look disappointed.

"Not long ago," I said. "How splendid it all is!"

"Well, I haven't had much of the splendor, gathering wood and waiting on mother and the women and swinging children. You better go and do some of the work."

"Oh, I just came for pleasure. Remember, I'm in a stuffy warehouse six days in the week."

"Well, ain't I in school an' chopping wood an' bringing water and hoeing weeds and busy enough, I can tell you. I'd like to be down there among the boats. An' I'm tired. I've been hunting these woods all over for you."

"Several squirrels found us and some birds came and sung to us. Well, let us sit down again. Poor tired Ben!"

Her tone was very sweet with no mockery in it. Ben dropped at the foot of a tree and stretched himself out. What a big boy he was getting to be!

Ruth sat down near him, I on the other side. She delicately pushed the hair from his warm forehead and smiled in his eyes.

"Did you swing all that little crew?" she asked.

"Yes, and twice as many more. I think there are four hundred children on this picnic."

"Half of the children in Chicago. How do you suppose we found enough for them to eat?"

Ben laughed with restored good nature. He was never cross long at a time.

Then they began to relate the funny mishaps, and we did not lack for merriment. Ruth had so many shrewd comparisons. But a group of children found us out.

"They want us all to git together," announced a shock-headed boy. "Mr. Walker's goin' to hev' a meetin'."

They were gathering from near and from far, like Scottish clans. Mothers hustled their families together. Teachers called the scholars in groups and made sure of their number. The baskets were put in the ox van and some cushions to ease up the joints of the old ladies. The remnants of cake were distributed. Then Mr. Walker gave out a hymn. In those days they were sung over so often, at least the favorites were, that every one knew them by heart. With what a shout it went up there at the edge of the wood. Then a very earnest, thankful prayer for the pleasure of the day, another hymn and the line began to form.

It had been a success to judge from the happy faces and joyous, if tired, voices. Plans were made for a much greater time another year.

The sun was slowly sinking into that wonderful west, and filling the sky with the red gold glow of later summer. The wind breezed up and brought freshness from the great lake, that now and then seemed a molten sea. It stirred every pulse within me.

Presently Ruth's step began to lag. It was growing dusky, and I slipped my arm around her waist, sometimes almost lifting the tired little feet off the ground.

"I've had such a good, good time," she whispered, "but the best was to have you come out. Only—hadn't you better let Ben walk out home with me?"

"Oh, why?" in a tone of decided objection.

"I can't just tell. It is one of the things you feel. He would like it. And you can come in to-morrow for dinner."

That would compensate, but there was no need and I was secretly glad. Mr. Gaynor was there waiting for her with his mule cart, and I think the weary Little Girl was satisfied.

That made a fine break in the everlasting political talk. No one was dreaming of Woman's Suffrage then, but the weaker sex were as strenuous for their favorite as the men. For a little while they forgot even him and enjoyed spiritual conferences, went to prayer meetings and exchanged experiences, sang hymns about their work.

It seemed to me no one was very clear about the issues. General Harrison was a decided favorite, and even now it seems a matter of wonderment that he did not go in by acclaim. We of the frontier had a stronger regard for him than the Eastern States. They were more cultivated and leaned to the social instead of the military aspect.

There were quarrels and not a few open brawls where pistols were used. Then came the great day of voting, and whiskey and betting were rampant. Chicago had improved a little on the old time, when all letters and news had been brought from Niles, Michigan, by a hardy half-breed, only once a fortnight. Still, the tidings were slow in reaching us. And when it came—Martin Van Buren was elected President of the United States of America. There was great rejoicing among the Democrats. Bonfires were built out on the prairies; they were forbidden in the town.

Indeed, there were a number of laws termed "The Ten Commandments," though some of them were not kept much better than the Mosaic Code. Pigs were not to wander in the streets, men were not to shoot off firearms in the limits, but they did. A stovepipe was not to run through a board partition, as if the city fathers had a premonition that fire would some day work a havoc. There was to be no horse racing in the streets, cards and dice were not to be played in taverns after ten o'clock.

I was much interested to know how Mr. Gaynor would take it. He was by no means a red-hot politician, and though he had decided views he seldom allowed himself to wrangle, but turned off an argument with a joke or some humorous comparison.

"Pity it isn't spring," he said dryly, "for then we could go to work and be sure of a long summer. Now we will be frozen up before you know it. I s'pose your folks are shouting. Well go ahead and have all the hurrahing that you can. It's a long lane that hasn't any turning, and ours has been pretty long. I think I see the turn four years ahead," with a funny twinkle in his left eye.

"I don't see that the President has so much power," I subjoined. I belonged to a debating society now, and we were discussing the affairs of the country. "He can veto. Then he has a cabinet to advise him—"

"Well, he doesn't when you come to that, but I observe that he has to shoulder the blame of an unfortunate administration. I wouldn't give a fig for your President, but I do hope Congress will do a little for us. Those Eastern fellows haven't an idea of what this section is going to be. They think they have the whole Atlantic Ocean and trade, and some day we'll have to feed them, keep them from starving. Why, the wheat fields will be the wonder of the world fifty years hence."

He was buying prairie land and seeding it to grain, planting corn and feeding pigs.

I remember his telling mother one time about election cake that the Eastern housekeepers made to treat their friends.

"'Twould take a mighty sight to go round here," said mother.

I was amazed to see animosities settle so soon and the men who had threatened to "blow off each other's heads" smoked the pipe of peace around the tavern stove. They were really country taverns, where neighbors came for a friendly gossip, even if they did drink a little whiskey and bet on a game of cards.

I think Mr. Harris was very much interested in furthering my turn for knowledge. He lent me books, he asked me to spend the evenings with him. He had a nice cheerful room with a married sister. He had several volumes of poetry that I borrowed for the Little Girl. Oh, what delight we took in "Percy's Reliques" and some of the old ballad singers!

She grew very slowly, it seemed to me, but then we were such big fellows. Homer went to a carpenter to learn a trade, building being considered a very good business. He was fully as tall as I, but he had no especial taste for books, though he was very quick and ingenious, and full of fun and frolic. There were dances once a fortnight in one of the rooms at the old fort, which was put to various uses, now that the Government had removed the troops. The court was held there, commissioners met to confer and ordain, pay taxes and make complaints. Everybody had a curious sympathetic feeling about it, as if it was in some sort a monument that commemorated the massacre. For some time after the treaty, when the Government purchased their lands, they distributed goods to the Indians every year. This was on the prairie, on the west side of the river, and we used to make it quite a holiday. The Indians sat around in a circle with the squaws behind them. There was a great pile of goods which the traders and some of the half-breeds began to distribute. At first the row of Indians was quite orderly. Then dissatisfaction would begin and they would rise to their knees, gesticulating and vociferating their mixed gibberish until it seemed they might break out into open war. Then there would be a general scramble, the squaws throwing back articles they did not care for and seizing a lot, that, perhaps, gave them no greater satisfaction.

The day ended by a big fire kindled far enough from the wigwams to escape the danger of conflagration, and the braves would dance around it in a furious manner. Occasionally there were brawls for several days, which culminated in killing a number, and many of the braves would part with their goods to whoever would trade whiskey for them, though this had to be done underhand.

All Chicago was glad and relieved when they were removed to their allotment. Forty ox teams carried the children and the baggage, while the braves and squaws marched leisurely, encamping for the night, and were nearly a month reaching their journey's end.

We were not rid of all the Indians, however. There were some who preferred semi-civilization and whiskey, and not a few half-breeds whose descendants were to be proud of their Indian blood in after years. There had been mixed marriages, mostly French traders, with Indian wives, and some of these made worthy citizens.

One of the Ottawa chiefs, who had prevented a massacre, after the defeat of Mayor Stillman's force, still remained in a noted place called Shabbona's Grove. Shabbonee kept the respect and friendship of the whites, and was quite a power in quelling disputes among his own nation. While most of the savages in our vicinity were not such as to inspire one with even tolerant sympathy, he was more like the heroes of romance that have been handed down to us from our forefathers. A broad-shouldered, stalwart specimen of his tribe, with a more intelligent face and strength of feature and character than even the average.

Times were very hard and through the winter little could be doing. Plans there were in abundance. Men lingered in the warm shelter of the warehouse and wrangled, of course. I think now it was the foreshadowing of "bulls and bears" that were to dominate the town in the years to come. One party drew roseate pictures of the possibilities of the coming Chicago. We were to be the centre of trade—we were between the east and the west, not only that, but there was Canada and the lakes and the mineral wealth of upper Michigan, the boundless prairies.

And the others sneered at the mud hole and saw dozens of ways in which trade could be diverted. The canal wouldn't ever be finished, the towns along the Mississippi had the start of us and would keep it. Cities would spring up along its banks as if by magic. There was the gathering trade centring in the mighty gulf, the outlet to France and England, even to the Coast States. What could we produce to compete with them! Would the great cities of the east be generous enough to fall back and beckon us on? Trade looked out for itself first of all.

I used to repeat these arguments to Mr. Gaynor. Sometimes when he wanted to go out of an evening he asked me to drop in so that Ruth would not be left alone. The handmaid, Melissa Hatch, had married and rejoiced in a two-room shanty of her own, but did not disdain coming in for a few hours daily and taking the rough work. They were rather gay and spent their evenings card playing and dancing with their neighbors. Fiddling was a common accomplishment. The dancing was more of the jig, or breakdown, order. Two people would dance to each other, executing all sorts of fancy steps, then turn to the next couple and pair off, and so on until they had gone around the room. If there were not more than four people they seemed to have just as merry a time. Then a little hot whiskey, and to home and to bed. No midnight dissipations for them.

Not that Mr. Gaynor was given to these festivities. He would go over to the Tremont or to Baubein's and listen to the talk, now and then putting in some shrewd remark or a bit of humor, and often caught an idea that he saved up for future consideration, and when the time came used it and made a success of it.

"All this talk doesn't bother me," he would say dryly. "New land's the place for fine crops. To the eastward you have to pick stones until you feel as if you had a ball and chain to your leg. Land's getting worn out, too. Some day they'll have to come to us for bread. They can't farm and manufacture at the same time, and they're just besotted on building towns and calling in people to work in factories. All well enough for those who like it, but these people will all have to be fed and some one will have to raise the stuff."

He was a typical Yankee for barter. He always had something the neighbors wanted, or could give assistance when it was most needed and take it out in something else, for there really was no money. He raised excellent stock. He looked at a thing, a pig or a pile of boards, or even a bit of land, squinting up one eye, and saw its good points at once. And he managed to keep on the right side of every one.

So I spent half my time at the Gaynors', mother said. Dan was a gay young chap in great demand with the girls, ready for any frolic, and already was the owner of a fine horse that he was very generous with when he had time to drive, and the girls were ready to tear each other half to pieces for the chance.

"I jest wish he'd settle down to one," mother would say complainingly. "There's no look when a fellow's butterflyin' round. He ain't like a bee who has some sense, but jest goes from flower to flower, an' that's the way with Dan. I ain't no ways anxious to have Polly Morrison for a daughter, but I did settle upon it a while ago, an' now it's Betty Hale, but it does seem as if some girl might catch him an' sober him down. He's smart to earn, but he'll never be forehanded until some woman gets hold of the purse strings."

Early marriages were quite in vogue, the general trend of new countries.

I did not have to consider the point, for twenty-one was early enough. And I was more interested in books than girls in general. I was not much of a dancer, and I think I was a little afraid of the quick, saucy retorts of the girls. I liked the sledding parties in winter and the skating. We even navigated about on snow shoes, and it was very exhilarating when there was a sharp crust frozen over the snow. On clear moonlight nights there was an indescribable splendor in the far sparkling reaches, whose only limit seemed the boundary of the blue sky, studded with brilliant gems of all colors, it seemed at such times, and changing, as if no settled tint predominated, as the air went waving among them, driving a flock here as if they were birds of mystery, then confronted by some daring immovable fixed star. I used to stand in silent wonder, they were so marvellous.

"And to think that heaven is behind them all," the Little Girl would say with grave eyes.

We were a good deal troubled with wolves and now and then there was a regular hunt. Dan was always delighted with such adventures. Some more valuable animals were captured as well.

But spring came on amain, and curiously enough, business seemed stirring up in spite of hard times and money disturbances. The people of Chicago were workers. They began to look after the streets a little, to straighten the houses that had been set in every fashion, and though there did not seem much of promise to call them thither, emigrants were arriving nearly every day in all sorts of vehicles, and of several nationalities. The French had quite a little settlement to themselves, Germans began to look for outlying farms, some had already bought Government land. There were still Indian wigwams, in which squaws labored and pappooses abounded.

And though it was not a highly diversified country, and many things were left for the hand of man to accomplish, still it took on a certain beauty. The broad belt of timber to the west stood up sentinel like, to the south there were various rises of ground; there were the broad prairies and the magnificent lake, beginning to be dotted with vessels of all the rather primitive kinds. The building of the Clarissa had been considered a great achievement, and was being followed by others.

Gardens came out in summer bravery. Many of them were an acre or two in extent. Apples and plums grew readily, indeed it seemed as if plums were indigenous to the soil. Smaller fruits were cultivated, and all those not likely to be killed with the hard cold winters.

Here and there you saw prairie schooners, as they were called, with a double team of oxen lumbering along with a load of logs from some more favorable point for the saw mill. Wheat fields waved in the sunshine, making billows like the sea. Cornfields green and strong shot up like armies. Rye and oats—everything grew as if by magic. Doors were wide open, and women sat spinning, or some one ran to and fro with nimble feet at the big wheel.

In another house was a loom, the warping bars hung with skeins of colored yarns, and the ceiling of the homely interior still ornamented with the remnants of winter provender, where there had been abundant storing. Children played around outside, older ones went to and from school, raced about in childish games, handed down from generation to generation. A neighbor woman in a faded blue gown and sunbonnet stopped to gossip awhile at some one's door as to who was "keepin' stiddy comp'ny," who had been buying a cow or putting up a shanty, or "dyein' of ther' yarn." Less than three quarters of a century ago they had dreams of greatness then, but they would have fainted to see this day.

The Little Girl had learned to spin and had a wheel. She had learned many other things as well, and some of the older people thought she was "fittin' to keep house a'thought any help." But M'liss was glad to come in daily, though now she brought a small bundle, rolled in an old shawl, which she generally deposited on a bench and stood a chair-back against it.

"I jest useter think it was orful to strap them little Injun babies on a board an' hang 'em to a tree, but I dunno. They want ter be made straight, an' fraish air is good fer 'em. I s'pose people'd think I was orful unhuman to do it, but lawsy a' massy me, what does anything like that want but jest to lay still an' grow till it gets some sense."

Ruth was not enchanted with the baby, though she berated herself for a kind of hard-heartedness. It had a funny little face screwed up to a point in the centre, with a sloping forehead and no chin to speak of, and it was a curious red brown.

"'Tain't no great beauty," M'liss admitted. "But I never see one that was. Ther's a big world fer 'em to grow good lookin' in if they hev the gift, an' if they hevn't, why, they hevn't, thet's all. I can't say I was eszatly hankerin' fer it, but it's here, an' sent fer some wise perpose, mebbe."

M'liss was very glad of the good meal and the chunk of pork or loaf of bread she earned. The Little Girl only went to school for half a day now, she was learning so many useful things at home to make her her father's housekeeper. He was always very tender to her I noticed, and thought her very smart.

Sometimes when we sat on the doorstep of an evening he would join the talk. His father and grandfather had been Revolutionary patriots. He had been to Boston and sailed from there to New York and back, and knew a good deal about the geography of the Eastern States. I brought out my store of knowledge, gleaned from traders who stopped at the warehouse. Some of the stories seemed too marvellous for belief, and now they are commonplace history.

The only thing Ruth was really slow about was figures. Mr. Gaynor was very quick and could not seem to understand it.

"You must learn," he would say. "I may get old and lose my eyesight, then you'll have to do my clerking."

So we used to labor with her. She knew her tables, children learned them perfectly in those days, but there was some little knack of applying them in which she seemed deficient. And when we were alone she would say:

"Oh, don't bother. Let us read. When I am grown up it will all come easy enough," and her winsome smile always persuaded me.

Mr. Harris had loaned me "Pope's Iliad," recommended it to me, in fact. When I had gone about half through I was so enchanted that I brought it to her, and turned back that we might share it together. How wonderful it seemed to us! We took it in as every word true. These were the people who lived long before America was discovered, long before William the Norman crossed over to Britain.

"But I do wonder if men must always fight," she said with a sigh.

We were at peace then except for an occasional Indian skirmish, but these glowing descriptions did stir my blood.

Then there was an old copy of the "Morte d'Arthur" that we revelled in. And there were outside enjoyments, rambles about on Sunday afternoons that we did not keep as strictly as the people to the eastward. Mr. Gaynor was full of funny stories about the old blue laws, as they were called, of having a hen put to death because she laid an egg on Sunday. But one that amused us very much was the old couplet:

There was some splendid birch and sassafras beer made in many families, and though there was a good deal of whiskey used, numbers of the best men frowned on habitual drinking.

One of the great amusements on Saturday afternoon was horse racing. This had to be outside the town. It created immense enthusiasm. Several of the young Indians owned fine horses and were proud enough of them. Dan entered his beautiful Chita, and after some training and several attempts she won a race, to his great delight. We had gone out, and I must say my inmost heart was stirred at the sight, but I had not thought the laurel wreath would descend to us. It was a perfect ovation. And that night he came home much the worse for drinking, and he and father had quite a desperate quarrel.

"I should like to shoot the mare!" declared father.

"He'd move heaven and earth to get another," and mother put her arm over father's shoulder. "Dan is a pretty good boy in the main, and I'm hoping he will get a wife some day to steady him."

"Polly Morrison!" flung out father scornfully.

"No, I hope it won't be Polly Morrison."

Polly was a slim, lithe slip of a girl that no two people ever agreed about. Her skin was of lily fairness no matter what she did. Her eyes were large, and although glorious does not seem the proper adjective, that is what they were. Brown, with golden lights that could flash and laugh and turn so tender, you were sure they were in tears. She had a rather wide mouth, full of curves and dimples. The one thing that laid her open to criticism was her hair. Somehow red hair was not in high favor, and though her admirers quarrelled about it, red it surely was, the deep rich sort of mahogany red, with a gloss as if the sun shone upon it. There were great waves from the white parting to the coil which covered the back of her head. Occasionally she shook it down, and it was a glistening cloud about her, looking like something alive. She was a harum-scarum sort of a girl, could row equal to a man, ride bareback, run races, dance like a creature bewitched, go to church on Sunday and look as demure as a saint.

That summer Chicago was all astir. It didn't matter to anybody whether Martin Van Buren was President or not. There were processions of grain coming in, ox loads, precursors of trains that no one dreamed of then, bringing it in sheets and blankets, begged of the housewives when bags were filled, and there was the crude elevator, the grain hoisted by hand with block and tackle, and dumped into the hold of the big Osceola. Twenty-nine hundred bushels to be sent to Black Rock, New York State, the beginning of the mighty contribution that was to enrich not only the city, but the east as well, and in future times to stand between the world and starvation.

Crowds went to see it. How proud everybody was. John Gaynor rubbed his hands in glee.

"What did I tell you!" he kept saying in triumph. "This will sometime be the great city of the world, and those blasted fools at Washington can't see that we need anything, not even to have the canal finished. Well, we will surprise them yet."

He was not much given to swearing, though profanity seemed rather in the air. The good parsons preached against it, and some of the best men rarely used an oath.

For days nothing was talked of but the exploit. The Osceola had gone off with the cheers of the crowd. But when the jubilation subsided a little, new plans were made for the elevator to use horsepower instead of hand, and to enlarge its capacity.

Crops of all kinds had been good. The yield of corn was tremendous. Pigs were in demand; there was plenty to fatten them. We were almost as likely to have a boom in these products as there had been in real estate a few years before.

Mr. Dole had been slaughtering and packing cattle of both kinds down on Dearborn and South Water streets. The small log building where he first lived stood three doors east of the warehouse, but now he had built a more commodious dwelling. Mr. Thompson was in his new office and still busy surveying and mapping out lots, and making trades that, as father said, kept the log rolling without any money. Mr. Thomas Church had enlarged his store, and the women had a gala time going to see the pretty things every few months when a new stock came in.

The older inhabitants still kept to weaving linsey woolsey and common grades of woollen, as well as some of the coarser cotton cloths. Spinning and knitting was much in vogue, but the girls beginning to grow up rather protested against the labor. And the goods coming from the States and abroad were so pretty and tempting. So butter and eggs were bartered off, strong sacking stuff, pork and woollen stockings for the boatmen and the voyagers.

Mr. Carpenter was building a fine house over on the west side and setting out choice fruits that stirred others up to emulation. Then we had a daily paper, the American having started a precarious venture that most men predicted would be a failure, and "where could any one find news enough to fill up a daily paper?" was on the tongues of the objectors. It might not have been the highest intellectual pabulum, but we were not educated up to that mark, and somehow we took to the effort most cordially and wondered how we could have done without it.

"You can't wash out a hankercheer now an' hang it on a bush, a'thought everybody knowin' it," grumbled Grandmother Green, "an' I kin hear all the news I want on prayer-meetin' night. I hain't got no money to go foolin' round stores an' other people wouldn't 'nother if they paid ther' just debts."